


Pining Sickness; Or, Murder With One Stone

by athaclena, iraeim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Autopsies, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2018, Detective Dean Winchester, Doctor Castiel, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Major Illness, Masturbation, Mating Bites, Medical Procedures, Misunderstandings, Mpreg, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Castiel/Alpha Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athaclena/pseuds/athaclena, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iraeim/pseuds/iraeim
Summary: New York, 1895. The rigid customs of the old century are beginning to fall away, allowing access to the professions for more people than just Omega men and Alpha women. Dean Winchester, the city’s first Alpha male Detective, uncovers evidence that a mysterious new illness killing mated couples might have its origins is the criminal rather than the medical.Castiel Novak is a respectable Omega doctor who has started to see patients dying cruelly of something he cannot cure or even effectively treat. Approached by the Detective to once again give his medical expertise, he is eager to work towards finding a cause and, he hopes, a cure for the unfortunate sufferers. But both men harbour a secret attraction towards the other, and the quest for the truth will stretch their relationship beyond its limits.A historical murder mystery set against a backdrop of a non-traditional Omegaverse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, the Pinefest monster that came out of an idle thought of "how could I write an Alpha Dean, then". It's been an intense ride, and I hope you like it.
> 
> Normally I put acknowledgements at the front of a fic, but this time they're in the final Acknowledgements and Appendix chapter. This fic has footnotes! They're not hoverable ones though, they're all at the end, so you can read them - or not - at your leisure.
> 
> Content warnings are as listed in the tags, and two more: this fic contains mentions of medical testing on animals. Nothing graphic, and all off-camera, but it is there, and it's in there for a reason. It's also as historically accurate as I could make it generally, and although I kept sexism and racism out of it (as far as I'm aware), there's magical sexism (A/B/O) and one instance of actual homophobia, sorry. Those instances will be flagged.

Greenwich Grace Hospital was stretched thin from higher than usual numbers of typhoid sufferers1, but Castiel was stretched even thinner. He knew himself to be fraying around the edges; the physician in him warned of nervous collapse from exhaustion even as it compelled him to continue to try to save lives.

Most of the typhoid victims would survive, although one of them had already succumbed to peritonitis and another had bled internally, judging by the quite alarming bruising on her torso. The treatment was well-known to all the staff here now; no-one was admitted to the typhoid ward without a lice check, and all the patients received intravenous fluids and regular analgesics. Typhoid kept them all busy, but it was a familiar enemy.

No, the real cause for all of his sleepless nights in the past week lay in a smaller room, two of them coughing blood and the third lying in listless despair, her mate dead of the same malady a week ago. They responded to no treatment that Castiel had found, and he was worried that they would all succumb like the first had, his body overtaxed beyond bearing.

Nights were the worst, because then their dreams were haunted and they cried out for their mates, their mothers, their families; they needed to be tied to their beds, and sometimes tried to fight their carers. They disturbed the other patients, normally lost in their own quiet delirium, and even when they did not cry out their moans still troubled Castiel's dreams. It was making him increasingly snappish and irritable, and he took it out on Hannah when she disturbed his half-hour's rest. Her shift was nearly over, and she would soon go home; his own time here seemed endless.

“I'm sorry, Doctor, it's just that Detective Winchester is here. He says he needs your expertise. Again.”

His practised ear could detect the faint overlay of distaste in her voice; she was a traditionalist, and had no time for Alpha men. Castiel scrubbed at his face and sighed deeply. “Show him in, then. And please see if the clean linens are here, the smell is becoming pervasive.”

As an Omega, his nose was much more sensitive than hers, which usually stood him in good stead in his profession: he could detect infection and disease in a patient's body very easily. Right now, though, it was a hindrance. Fever-sweat and effluence stained the air, and the familiar musky scent of the detective would not be a welcome addition to the mix. Castiel took a furtive and fortifying sniff at his emergency handkerchief, scented with lavender and rosemary, to clear his nose and steady his mind.

Detective Winchester looked as tense and overworked as Castiel felt, although there was less evidence of fatigue on his face and in his walk. Then again, Winchester always seemed to have a terrible amount of energy and ran himself until he dropped; Castiel had seen him in the aftermath of a long case before, prostrate and grey with exhaustion, and had nearly forced the man into a bed under his care.

“Hey, Doc,” Winchester said. His usual easy smile was absent, and his shoulders were tight with tension. “Need to pick your brains about a case I'm working on.”

“I'm actually very busy right now, I have several very ill patients and they need a great deal of my attention.” Night was falling, and the nightmares would begin again soon. “I'm afraid I simply can't spare you the time for another autopsy, Detective.”

“Do your patients moan like the damned and have mates who died of a bloody cough?”

“I – yes. How did you... Are there more of these poor people? How many?” Castiel was abruptly fully alert, his curiosity piqued and his nerves jangling. This could be very bad. A small neighbourhood outbreak of typhoid was manageable, albeit tragic for any caught up in it; a mysterious plague that he knew nothing about could sweep through New York and kill thousands in a matter of weeks.

Winchester met his eyes grimly, his face set. “Three dignitaries so far have died, a week after their mates died coughing. When I started looking into it, I found evidence of far more. The Chief thinks it's some illness, but I'm not seeing an infection pattern like you showed me when that cholera outbreak2 hit.”

“You suspect deliberate infection?”

“I suspect murder. I'm not sure of the means, yet. You got any insight? The University doctors are on it but...”

“But they're a pack of hide-bound fossils,” Castiel finished wearily. “I'm afraid my notes are somewhat disarrayed at present, but I'll do what I can to help your investigation. Is this, ah, off the books?”

“Not quite. I can pursue the murder angle until it's declared an outbreak. Once it is, though, I'll be expected to help keep the quarantine.” Winchester shook his head and worried at his lip, making it red and plump. “I don't like this, Doc. Something smells bad, and it ain't your typhoid patients. A lot of people benefited from Iron Eddie dying, and he's not the only one on the list of dead who had enemies or jealous family members.”

The name rang a vague bell, but Castiel couldn't place it. It wasn't relevant right now; Detective Winchester would no doubt brief him fully if and when it was required. "How should we best proceed, then? I believe my patients are still awake if you would like to speak with them, but I warn you they’re easily tired in their current condition."

Winchester nodded, still chewing on his abused lip. Castiel's gaze was drawn to it as if magnetised. It would soon be damaged enough to be an open wound, and that was a vector for infection. "Sounds like a good place to start. If I could see your notes as well? I know you have some, Doc, you always take good ones." He smiled, bringing light and humour back into his features, and Castiel reflexively smiled in return. He rolled his eyes at the flattery and turned back to his desk to try to find the notes in question. If his back also hid the stain of heat rising to his cheeks, so much the better.

Finding his scattered medical notes and musings was easier than he had feared, although his desk was filled with letters and notes and books; he had been poring over them again last night, unable to return to sleep after being awoken by a particularly heart-rending cry from Mrs Spadavecchia. "This is everything I have so far. It's not collated into a proper report yet, I'm afraid, and I will need the patient records back as soon as possible. The other notes are less urgent at present." He had been trying to create a proper theory about the illness in order to form a treatment plan, to no avail.

"Can I just - do you mind if I read them first, before speaking to the patients? I want to get a clearer picture of the progress of the disease, the servants and family members I've spoken to haven't had your medical training."

"Of course. I need to make the rounds in the typhoid ward, feel free to use my desk. There's coffee in the kettle if you want any." Castiel stood and stretched out his back and shoulders, moving towards the door. "Do you need paper for notes? I have some somewhere."

The ever-prepared Detective brought out his notebook with a flourish. "Got it covered, Doc. Go save lives."

In fact, no lives particularly needed to be saved tonight; all of the patients were responding well to treatment, with three of them nearly through the final week of infection and starting to show signs of recovery. Even the young woman with the horrifying bruises was looking better; her blood pressure had improved, and whilst her liver and pancreas were still obviously swollen, the tenderness had started to decrease. With any luck, the worst of this outbreak was over. No new cases had come in in several days.

Castiel made small adjustments to their treatment plans with Hannah and Jessica, and washed his hands thoroughly before making his way to the kitchen. He ascribed to the recent theories on contagion3 and very much paid attention to cleanliness, it being professionally embarrassing to come down with the same illness one was trying to treat. Taking two bowls of the nutritious and easy-to-digest gruel4 that was always warming beside the fire, along with some bread and butter, he made his way back to his office.

Detective Winchester looked grim when he turned at Castiel's entrance, although his eyes lit up at the sight of food. "You're a life-saver," he sighed in thanks at the proffered bowl. "Haven't eaten since breakfast."

"I am aware of your habits, Detective," Castiel replied dryly, sitting on his comfortable - albeit unfashionable - sofa.

Winchester responded with an injured look and an indistinct mumble through a too-large mouthful of bread. Castiel raised an eyebrow as he took a prim mouthful of his own. They traded smirks and sardonic eyebrows for the rest of their hurried meal; Winchester wasn't the only one who hadn't eaten since breaking his fast.

Finally, the Detective stifled a belch and sighed in satisfaction. "I don't know how your cook makes gruel satisfying, but it's always good," he said with a smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. It's a recipe I developed myself, although Mrs Tran has improved on it considerably. It's very wholesome. Good for patients as well as busy staff."

"Well, pass on my compliments. I might need to pick up the recipe for when Sam's bad, actually, this might help."

Samuel Winchester was an unfortunate young man whose mate Ruby had died several months ago, of galloping consumption5. Pining sickness had hit him hard, and he was rarely able to work regularly; he stayed in the small house he shared with the Detective, who had been caring for him all this time. Castiel had already been familiar with Winchester before his brother became ill, but his support and advice in a medical capacity had opened up their relationship into a much friendlier one than the strict professionalism it had been before.

"I should have given it to you at the time," Castiel frowned. "I apologise for the lapse."

"It's fine, our neighbours had it covered. Don't worry." Winchester picked up his notepad and gestured to the now-organised piles of notes on Castiel's desk. "Guess we better get started. I got a couple questions first, if that's okay?"

"Of course. Ask away."

"There's no sign of an autopsy report, is that still to come?"

"No. The first victim was buried shortly before his mate was admitted."

"Damn. What makes you so sure they're connected? Some of my fellow officers think it's just fatal cases of pining sickness.” Rare, but not unknown; Castiel had treated people who were made dangerously ill by the malady in the past.

He couldn’t help grimacing at the suggestion, though. "My experiences of pining sickness suggest a different pathology, at least for the first mate. The second… perhaps. The night terrors in all of the cases are identical, and Mrs Spadavecchia became ill before her mate died. If she does have fatal pining sickness, she was experiencing the early stages of it before he died."

Winchester tapped his mouth with his pen thoughtfully. "That's consistent with the reports I've had from the other deaths. This is... not looking any less like a really cruel assassination, to me."

Castiel blinked in surprise, but he could follow the logic. "So the first mate is infected and then dies, and the second is killed by grief. That has a certain horrifying neatness to it."

"Lot of horrifyingly neat murderers out there," Winchester sighed heavily, bitter experience lying behind his words. "I can't figure out motive or means, though. Theories are useless without evidence."

"Well, I've been unsuccessful at isolating any bacterium so far, and if it were contagious I would expect to see more household cases. But the children and neighbours seem fine, in all of the cases I’ve seen. I suppose it depends how long the incubation period is."

"Unless it's really long, there's no sign of any related infections. Just these isolated couples." Winchester licked at the now-raw patch on his lip with a wince. "I've been trying to narrow down all of the cases, but it's a big city, and people die all the time. Next stop after here is the city morgue, they were looking out records for me, and then the churches; they might know of other cases."

"I doubt I can help with that, but I can perform autopsies if you need me to. I know the city morgue is over-taxed." Few politicians saw the need for funding it, however much the criminal justice system as a whole made noises about it. Corpses were never popular.

"Thanks, Doc. I'll probably take you up on that."

Castiel led the Detective through the hospital to the three victims, pausing as they reached the door to the small ward. The smell of despair and longing leaked out into the corridor, making both men wrinkle their noses. "Prepare yourself," he warned Winchester in a low voice. "It's far worse inside. We're doing what we can to clean the air but... well, you'll see."

Winchester nodded once, setting his jaw against further distress. Castiel opened the door to the ward and ushered him inside quickly; the scent spread quickly through the rest of the small hospital if the door was left open, which made it unbearable for him to work in.

To his credit, the detective showed no visible signs of the shock he must have felt at the wave of suffering that washed over them both. Mrs Spadavecchia was growing worse, by her smell; her fever was climbing and her abject misery and mourning was all the deeper for it. The others, Mr Morris and Mr von Braun, were progressing exactly as Mr Spadavecchia had a week ago.

"Gentlemen, lady," Castiel began with a nod to them all. "This is Detective Winchester. He would like to ask you all a few questions, if that is acceptable to you, whilst I take some readings."

Von Braun nodded, Morris grunted, and Mrs Spadavecchia lay listlessly. She did not turn her face away, though, so Castiel took that as permission. He nodded to Winchester, who sat next to von Braun and began questioning him in a low voice.

Busy with his own work, Castiel only heard enough to grasp where the Detective's thoughts were going; he concentrated on their personal histories, their mates, and what they had been doing the few days before they became ill. His gentle probing revealed information that might prove useful in Castiel's own line of inquiry: whilst on admittance they had all described the fever and coughing as the start of their illness, both of the male patients had experienced loss of appetite and increased emotional turmoil for two days before the more obvious symptoms began.

By the time Winchester moved to Mrs Spadavecchia, the other two patients had nodded off to sleep. Castiel took more heart-rate and temperature measurements, careful not to disturb their rest. Not strictly necessary, but he wanted to remain in the room for this; Mrs Spadavecchia had barely spoken in the five days she had been his patient, although she had been garrulous whilst helping to care for her husband.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs Spadavecchia," Winchester began, voice and eyes full of compassion. "I can't begin to imagine what this is like for you, but if there's anything you can tell me, it will help me to stop this from happening to anyone else."

A tear rolled slowly down her cheek. "Carlotta," she whispered. "My name is Carlotta."

"Carlotta, then." He bent and kissed her hand like he was meeting a fine lady, and for a moment there was warmth in her eyes. "Do you feel able to speak about the onset of this disease in your mate?"

Another tear, but a faint nod. Still holding her hand, the detective pressed on. "Did he experience any loss of appetite in the days before? Any wild emotion?

The brightness in her cheeks grew redder. "Maybe he ate less. But he was very... passionate. In the bedroom way. Until he grew ill."

"And yourself? Have you experienced similar?" Winchester was blushing faintly too now, making the fine freckles on his cheeks stand out.

"No. I got sad, though. Before he died." Her voice was becoming hoarse and Castiel fetched her water to drink, which she took gratefully. "Like he was gone while he was still here."

She was weeping softly now, tears crawling down her face. "I know how hard this is, Carlotta, but I just have another couple of questions," Winchester murmured gently, his voice as soothing as warm honeyed milk in front of the fire. "Can you think of anyone with a grudge against you or your mate? Anyone who might want to see either of you dead?"

Castiel drew in a sharp breath to complain at this treatment, but Mrs Spadavecchia nodded. "Everyone loved Luca, he was the best man alive, but the Camorra6 \- we stood up to them. And then... this." The word Camorra was utterly unfamiliar to Castiel, but Winchester nodded knowledgeably.

"They say your mate is always with you, even after death." He kissed the back of her hand again, and bent over her to kiss her cheeks. "I will find the people who did this. And I will stop them."

"Thank you," she breathed, and her eyes drifted shut.

They left the room silently, and breathed in the relatively clean air outside for a moment. "That was... intense," Winchester managed. He looked shaken. "My God, that poor woman."

Castiel drew out his scented handkerchief and took a fortifying sniff, passing it to the detective without comment. "Her suffering is very cruel, if it was caused by this Camorra."

"Hell, even if it ain't, it's still cruel," muttered Winchester, breathing deeply through the handkerchief. "Thanks, Doc. That's much better." Castiel led him to a nearby sink, where he directed the detective to wash his hands thoroughly whilst he did the same. The strong smell of the carbolic soap7 helped to further cleanse their noses.

"You should note that, whilst hers was the most prominent distress in the room, the scent rises from all of the sufferers in my experience," Castiel said carefully. "More so than, say, a fevered dream would warrant."

An unearthly moan came from the room they had just left, and Winchester flinched. "Is that..."

Castiel nodded, leading them back to his office. "Every night while they sleep. We wake them if they become too distressed."

Winchester looked distressed himself. "That's... I mean, the servants said it was bad, but I never imagined it was this bad. I hope you're looking after yourself, getting away from this sometimes. And your staff, of course."

"It's difficult to get away now, with Dr Masters gone," Castiel began, but Winchester scowled at him and he had to suppress the absurd impulse to display his neck in submission. "I have tomorrow off completely." He planned on working through his notes again, to see if there was anything he'd missed.

"And you'll be poring over your notes and thinking about your patients? No." Winchester gathered up all of Castiel's notes with a determined look on his face. "I need to look over these properly. Police work. You'll get them back in two days' time."

Castiel acquiesced with a scowl of his own. In truth, he was grateful for the excuse. “Very well. Please return them in the morning. I will be here from six.”

Winchester nodded with a pleased smile. “I'll be here. Thanks for this, Doc. I mean it.” He gathered his overcoat and strode out of the door, leaving Castiel to his thoughts and the shuddering moans of Mr von Braun.

It was only later, as he sprinkled pine-scented water through the corridor, that he realised that the Detective's personal scent in his quarters had not been displeasing, contrary to his expectations. He was almost disappointed to have to freshen the air.

It was later still that he realised what that meant. Winchester had always been pleasing to look at, there was no denying the physical beauty of the man, but Castiel had never let that affect him, never fixated on his strength or scent at all. This new awareness could end the easiness of their working relationship, and turn it dangerous and fraught with desire on Castiel's part. Better to ignore it.

 

Mrs Spadavecchia died in the night, with a gentle smile on her face.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr Novak's notes were very helpful for building up a time-line1 for each of the murders, but Dean was making no progress regarding either suspects or mode of delivery for the disease. His work was further complicated by Sam's continuing illness; every five or six weeks he suffered another relapse that put Dean in the position of nursemaid in his off-duty hours, and this week was another bad one.

He had charged one of his usual runners with returning the notes, a hastily scribbled apology for his absence attached as he was too busy to leave his desk, but the boy came back with a message from Novak in his elegant handwriting:

_Thank you for the safe return of my notes. I plan to conduct an autopsy on Mrs Spadavecchia this evening which you may wish to attend. We will not begin until after sunset. Please ensure you have a lunchtime meal, it is important for your health. Yours, C Novak._

With an invitation like that, how could Dean refuse? He made sure to eat, as prescribed by his doctor, and arrived just after the autopsy had begun.

Instead of the expected sight of Dr Novak elbow-deep in a corpse, though, the tall blonde nurse (whose name was on the tip of his tongue) was frowning at a pair of lungs in her gloved hands as the doctor himself sat composedly on the other side of the body, taking notes. “Uh... sorry I'm late,” Dean said cautiously.

“It's fine, we're only just getting to the exciting parts,” Novak replied with one of his small, fleeting smiles. Something in the region of Dean's stomach fluttered, and it wasn't because of the faint smell of death.

“Detective Winchester,” nodded the nurse. “There are lesions in the lungs as you said, Doctor. Some signs of inflammation but no infection.”

The Doctor harrumphed. “Put them aside for a more in-depth study, and move on to the digestive system.” He tilted his head towards Dean and gestured to another stool. “Sit down, you'll block her light. Miss Moore is in the final year of her medical training, she's quite proficient at dissection.”

That explained it. “Well damn, who am I going to call Doc now?” Dean said with a grin. He received two eyerolls in return and grinned wider.

Unfortunately, autopsies required a certain amount of concentration, so he mostly stayed quiet. Miss Moore definitely knew her way around a body, and was quick and decisive with the scalpel; she was also very respectful of the body. Not quite as much as Dr Novak, but far more so than the city coroners. There were no crude comments about the dead woman's diet or bedroom life, no “humorous” puppetry of any organs; it was all very civilised.

Truth be told, Dean appreciated it. His reputation - the reputation of all Alpha males - was that he was crude and brutish, with humour and intellect to match. But Dean appreciated the finer things in life as much as any former poor kid did, and he found the more respectful approach to be reassuring and calming. After all, it might be him on this cold table one day, or one like it, and he would much prefer that the coroner was gentle with his body.

Finally all of the major organs were excised, weighed, and measured. They were all lined up in little metal bowls for further analysis, like a modern version of Ancient Egyptian canoptic jars2.

Only one thing remained that Dean could think of, and it was clearly one that no-one wanted to desecrate. Miss Moore was clearly bracing herself for the bone-saw when Dr Novak put his hand out. “Wait. We should allow the Detective a proper observation of the body before we proceed with the brain extraction. It might be pertinent to his investigation.”

Miss Moore nodded, grateful for her reprieve, and swiftly and neatly sewed up the body cavity while Dean allowed himself a proper inspection. Death had barely touched Mrs Spadavecchia yet, thanks to the cold cellar, but her skin had started to sink inward, and there was discolouration from her blood settling before it had been drained.

He didn’t truly expect to find any clues, but he went through the motions to allow Miss Moore as much time as possible to steel herself for her next task. He kept his eyes averted from the body’s breasts and private parts; better to be seen to be avoiding them, and if there were any clues there then the eyes of the doctors would be far better at spotting them.

He circled the table carefully, analysing her based on his years working the streets. “She was on her feet most of the time,” he started, keeping his voice low. “She washed her hands a lot, they’re cracked - laundry? Or, no, those are knife callouses, must be kitchen work. Must’ve been real finicky about staying clean to get hands that bad.”

Moving further up, he took in her face and hair, trying to see the shape of her life in the lines on her face. “She smiled a lot. Happy marriage, or at least amicable. Frown’s quite pronounced, too, either she was worried about the Camorra a lot or she had unsatisfactory help in the kitchen. She dyed her hair to cover the greys, some vanity there, she kept herself looking nice.”

The Doctor was pleased with him, Dean could tell by the crinkle in his eyes, and Miss Moore looked suitably impressed at this basic detective-work. All it took was a little attention, really, anyone could do this stuff. Dean finished by looking at the mating bite on her neck, tipping her head to the side. “Deep mark, the marriage was good, that’s regular biting there.”

“How can you tell it was good?” Miss Moore asked. Her cheeks were stained faintly pink; it wasn’t exactly polite, talking about mating bites, although Dean was surprised it hadn’t come up in her medical training. Then again, they might have been too embarrassed to reveal all of that to a young woman. Or deliberately teaching her poorly; Dean had seen that kind of thing before. Some of the old guard were furious about letting anyone other than Omega and Beta men and Alpha women go into the professions.

“Well, uh… normally that happens during heat or rut, but they were both Betas, right Doc?” Dr Novak nodded, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. Or Miss Moore’s. Embarrassed too, then. “So neither of them would have gone through the whole rut rigmarole, so the scar would be more faded unless they were, you know, topping it up every so often.” Quite a lot, looking at the scar. “It’s not been fashionable to have them that big for, oh, decades now. So they must both have wanted it that way, otherwise it would have healed different.”

“There’s an emotional component to mating bites, as is noted in Gray’s Anatomy3,” Novak said, his voice dry as bone. “They have to be truly wanted to retain their depth, or the body slowly begins to reject the bite and heal the gland underneath. It’s a physiological reaction. Most people don’t realise it or notice it, however.”

“Real useful to see if there’s a domestic problem, though, if you’re professionally nosy like me,” Dean said with a cheerful grin. He carefully moved Mrs Spadavecchia’s head back into position. The light caught the surface of the bite oddly, and he frowned. “Wait, there’s something wrong here.” He ran his fingers over the surface of the bite - completely taboo on the living, but the dead never seemed to care. “There’s some weird… pitting and bumps here, under the skin. On the gland, I guess?”

Miss Moore and Dr Novak immediately took a closer look. “Yes, I believe you’re right,” Dr Novak said. “Excellent work, Detective. Please reveal the gland, Miss Moore.” He sat back on his stool, pen racing over a new page, his scowl slowly fading to a frown of concentration.

The work was more delicate than removing organs, involving a certain amount of what Dean was really reluctant to call flensing but did not know the correct word for. It took Miss Moore several careful minutes to open the gland up fully, taking care to leave the surface of the bite undamaged for viewing purposes.

The smell that rose from the gland was a new and horrifying one for Dean, slowly increasing to become overwhelming. He gagged, and swallowed convulsively as his stomach threatened to rebel. Beside him Novak was in a similar state, clutching his scented handkerchief to his suddenly-pale face. Miss Moore was less distressed - Betas had all the luck - but her face was still twisted in discomfort.

It was hard to categorise the smell, exactly. It didn’t smell like anything that should have come from a person; it reminded Dean of all of the horrors of his childhood rolled into one, combined with a general smell of infection overlaid with a faint hint of rot.

“Good God,” Miss Moore whispered. Tears stood in her eyes as she bent closer. “It’s covered in little pustules. Some have gone black,” she added faintly. “How can this have - I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Grimly, Dr Novak put down his papers and drew closer, fighting his clear desire to vomit the whole time. “My God,” he breathed when he could see the whole area. “That poor woman.” He took a step back and turned even paler. “I - forgive me,” he choked out, and fled the room.

Dean was only holding down lunch out of sheer stubbornness at this point. He’d smelled worse, objectively speaking, but the feelings inspired by this scent were overwhelming, flooding his mind with despair and hopelessness. “We should - we should get some air,” he said to Miss Moore. “Come back when we’re properly prepared for… this.”

She nodded, looking increasingly pale herself, and took her gloves and apron off with shaky hands. Dean held the door for her and staggered out behind her, dragging himself up the stairs before sinking to the floor and trying to clear his nose with the smell of disinfectant and pine.

The sound of Novak emptying his stomach came faintly down the corridor, and Miss Moore disappeared briefly from Dean’s side to return with a clean bucket. “In case you need it. I’ll return with something to help with the smell.” She still sounded ill, but not prostrate with it, which struck Dean as incredibly unfair.

He lost the battle with his guts after another moment, which made him feel worse, not better, because now his mouth tasted terrible too. Miss Moore came hurrying back with some freshly cut ginger on a piece of linen, and helped him to his feet. “Just a little further, we’ll get you lying down in no time,” she soothed. “We have a room with nice open windows, and you can rest there until you start feeling better, both of you.”

One of the other nurses - a young Omega man with an improbable name that Dean could never remember - was making the same journey with Novak, who looked just as terrible as Dean felt. They were both given beds in a small private room with, as promised, wide open windows.

The fresh air certainly helped with Dean’s nausea, but his nose began to run and itch abominably, leading to long minutes of violent sneezing before his head finally cleared and he lay exhausted. Novak had been through a similar process, although his stomach had suffered more than Dean’s had from the experience. Then again, Dean had to deal with Sam’s digestive system on a regular basis, which might have helped inoculate him somewhat.

Normally that thought would have been enough to make him grin, but his mood remained very low. He suspected it was to do with the effect of whatever the gland had been producing, but his medical knowledge was lacking in that regard. He wasn’t clever enough for such things.

Fortunately he was in a room with an expert. “Hey, Doc?” Dean croaked out, laboriously sitting upright so he could get a glass of water. “Is this… melancholy because of the gland?” He drank carefully, not trusting his stomach yet.

Novak blinked at him owlishly for a moment, and Dean was hit by a wave of longing for the man so terrible that he almost struggled to breath through it. “That would be logical,” Novak sighed eventually. “I imagine it will pass on its own, although I have no idea how long that might be. We're the test cases.” He gave Dean a grim little smile. “I'll see if I can find a nurse to start taking notes.”

The harsh noise of the bell made Dean cringe, but his nerves settled in the silence afterwards. “I feel terrible. This is awful. No wonder that poor woman was so ill.”

“Mmm. Her symptoms were similar, certainly, although I believe we are already through the worst of it, whereas for her...” Novak's voice trailed off. He looked despairing, racked with grief and self-recrimination.

For his own part, Dean's mind had started to wander back to the most recent murder case he had been on. He hadn't fought hard enough to get to question the suspect, a wealthy Beta male cousin of a powerful Omega family, and Walt and Roy had questioned him instead, doing a piss-poor job of it and letting the suspect go to kill another three times before Dean finally caught him in the act. Those three deaths were on him, as well as that poor traumatised Omega boy who might never recover from his ordeal.

Around and around his thoughts spiralled until Miss Moore returned to their sick-room with a sheaf of papers and a tray of gruel, which she placed on the sideboard. She was still pale, with reddened eyes and a tired slump to her shoulders, but she looked far healthier than Dr Novak did, or than Dean felt.

Miss Moore began by checking their heartbeats and temperatures, with a slight frown over the former and pursed lips over the latter. She sat down at the foot of the beds with a small sigh and began noting the information down. “How are you both feeling now?” she asked. Her voice sounded slightly nasal, confirming Dean's suspicion that she had been weeping.

“Like hell,” he replied bluntly. “Smell's out of my nose though and I stopped puking4 a while back.”

“Yes,” sighed Dr Novak, “I too feel, as the detective says, like hell.”

“I completed the autopsy, and discovered no deformations in the brain. There was what looked like inflammation in all of the other sex glands, though, once I exposed them. I’ve removed them all and placed them in preservative fluid.” Miss Moore took a fortifying breath of fresh air. “The mating gland I have preserved in ice; I dissected two of the nodules and they… their structure did not survive dissection. I did obtain fluid samples, though, which are on slides ready for further analysis.”

She gestured towards the bowls of gruel and began eating her own. Dean followed orders carefully, but this was far more bland than the gruel he had had - God, had it only been two days ago? - and it did not upset his stomach. In fact, he began to feel a little better for it.

Dr Novak was clearly more reluctant to eat, but after observing the effect on Dean began to sip at small mouthfuls, and soon enough his colour began to improve too. “You’ve done excellent work today, Jessica,” he said. “Truly. I would not have asked you to proceed without assistance.”

“I prepared myself as best I could, and Hannah was waiting at the top of the stairs should I come into any difficulties. But the substance in the glands affected me far less than it did either of you. I suspect that is due to my specific sex.”

“So I surmised. We will need to make copious notes on this experience, and distribute them quickly so that other doctors and coroners are made aware of the effects before they suffer similar maladies.”

She nodded, as did Dean. “I had also thought… if this is contagious, we have all been very much exposed. We will need to monitor ourselves closely over the next several days.”

“Quite,” Dr Novak said faintly, and Dean could feel himself blanching at the thought of it.

“I gotta get home this evening, Sam’s sick and I can’t leave him alone overnight,” he began urgently, but Miss Moore made a soothing gesture with her free hand and he subsided.

“It is only because of the quantity of raw toxin that we have been exposed to that makes me think we might be at risk. We are both satisfied that there is no risk of contact of infection through normal exposure to the patients.”

“Sexual exposure, perhaps,” Dr Novak commented, “so it behooves us all to be discreet until we are sure that we are safe.”

Dean’s heart sank at the suggestion, which betrayed how little Novak thought of him. He couldn’t truly blame him, though; Alphas were notorious for a reason, and Dean often felt that he had only the slimmest control over his violent instincts. It hurt to know that he did not have the Doctor’s good opinion, but he had always suspected it.

He had always known how unlikely it was that he would have a chance of true friendship with Dr Novak, how different their stations in life were. But he couldn’t help the desires of his heart, which leaned ever more towards the slim but powerful frame of the Doctor, the fierce and swift intellect, and the depth of his emotions and sincerity.

Dean had always known this attraction was hopeless. This hurt was nothing he could not stand.

“Good to know,” he choked out. “Am I good to go then Doc? I feel fine now, I don’t want to waste any more of your time.” He directed his question at Miss Moore, surprising a tiny smile from her at the title.

“If you can stand and walk, I see no reason to keep you against your will,” she said. It took more effort than Dean cared to admit, but he managed both feats. “Very well. Please give us your full report on what you felt today, the emotional component as well as the physical. It will help us a lot.”

Dean nodded shortly and put on his greatcoat. “I’ll do that. Best of luck with your patients, Dr Novak, Doc Moore.”

He left, and didn’t see the hurt and confusion on Dr Novak’s face as he did so.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel was restless by the second day of close monitoring by all of his staff whilst he was at work, and the report by Detective Winchester - delivered once more by a young Alpha runner rather than the Detective himself - had raised as many questions as it had answered. Accordingly, he left Greenwich Grace earlier than his wont and made his way to the Detective’s home. His brother was ill once more, Castiel reasoned, and perhaps his professional eye would be of some help.

He took a covered saucepan of gruel with him, recalling Winchester saying it would be helpful. He likely had not had enough time to make any yet. It was a kindness Castiel would show any of his housebound patients.

The Detective kept an apartment in on the north-western edge of Greenwich Village, near the Meat-packing District. Castiel wondered why he would not have chosen somewhere nicer to live and closer to where he worked, but then shook his head at his own short-sightedness when he began walking through the neighbourhood and was hit by the scent of clean Alphas permeating the location. Winchester was a single Alpha; he was denied entry to the nicer neighbourhoods as a point of principle, and would only attain such rarified accommodation if he were mated, or if he became spectacularly wealthy or famous.

None of those things seemed likely. The Detective seemed content to remain a bachelor, and Castiel had certainly not caught any hint of anyone’s scent lingering on him other than his Alpha brother’s. Not that he had been seeking it out; it was just one of the things that a sensitive Omega nose automatically categorised.

The apartment block Winchester lived in was slightly shabby but otherwise respectable, and Castiel made his way up to the second floor carrying the saucepan carefully. It was quite full; he might have overestimated Samuel Winchester’s appetite. If so, it would keep the Detective well nourished whilst he nursed his brother. Unaccountably satisfied with that thought, Castiel knocked on the door and waited patiently.

Detective Winchester, as it turned out, was very much more casual when he was off-duty. He opened the door forcefully, wearing a white undershirt with nothing on top, suspenders hanging at the sides of his trousers. His arms were, frankly, very fine specimens of arms, with well developed muscles, faint freckles, and fine golden hairs. His shoulders were broad and similarly well-shaped. All round, he made a very aesthetically pleasing specimen.

Castiel swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “Detective Winchester. Forgive me for disturbing you after working hours, but I had some questions regarding our recent unfortunate experience, and I thought I would bring you provisions for your brother.”

The Detective’s mouth hung open for a moment before he covered it with a strained smile. “Sure thing, come on in. I’m afraid the place is kinda messy right now, I haven’t been able to clean properly with Sam ill and the investigation. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, beer, barley water, whiskey?”

Castiel followed him inside the apartment. It was actually tidier than his own was, and his apartment block provided a maid; more evidence of Winchester’s tidy nature, in mind as well as body. One wall had a board of thin wood leaning against it, pine by the smell of it, which had a map of the city and numerous other papers attached; Castiel drifted towards it almost without thought. “Coffee would be lovely, thank you,” he said absently. “Just black is fine.”

The map had over two dozen pins in it, with red string leading from each of them to cards on the side. Each card held the details of two people - mated couples, he quickly realised - with pertinent details of their lives and deaths on them. Some of the pins also had thin strands of green linking them together; there was no overarching pattern there, no central point which the green thread connected to.

Castiel had read most of the cards on the side when he felt his hands being gently clasped around a cup of coffee. It was cool enough to sip, and he finished his reading whilst enjoying the cup. He turned round to find a fond but amused smile on Detective Winchester’s face - he had a great deal of experience of those from family members and could recognise them instantly.

He found himself blushing in response and ducked his head. “My apologies, I was engrossed in your research,” he said. “It’s very thorough. I had no idea there were so many cases.”

“Been piecing it together for a couple weeks now. Case has started gaining momentum now, the morgues and hospitals are on the look-out for potential victims.”

“Strange that I have seen so many victims, then,” Castiel mused. “Both von Brown’s mate and Morris’ mate are in the ward now. I can fill in their details if you like.” Their admittance did not come as any particular surprise, based on Mrs Spadavecchia’s progress, but it was distressing to watch the couples begin to understand that they would both die within days of each other, and there was nothing they could do about it but hope for eternity together.

Winchester nodded. “Yes, that would be very helpful. I’m gonna see if Sam’s awake and try him with the gruel.” He walked down the small corridor and disappeared through a bedroom door.

Castiel concentrated on filling in as much of the details about the mates as possible whilst the Detective worked in the kitchen. He had paid attention to the questions that Winchester had asked a few days ago and had collected as much information as he could about possible links to criminal activity or any other beneficiaries of their deaths, and he was pleased that he was able to help in this regard.

He had just finished his task when Winchester came over again. “Sam says he’s happy to see you, if you have the time,” he said diffidently, but he was clearly keen for Castiel’s expertise, evidenced by him worrying at his lip and shifting on his feet.

“Of course. I have everything I need with me. This jacket has very convenient pockets.” Castiel gestured down at his overcoat, an unfashionable tan colour which nevertheless kept him warm and dry, and disguised the many trappings of his profession in its multitude of pockets. Sometimes visibly being a doctor had its disadvantages; there were too many opium addicts who, rightly, thought that he was carrying laudanum1.

Winchester’s lips twitched, but he merely commented upon the jacket’s usefulness as he led Castiel down the corridor to the master bedroom. He glimpsed an indoor washroom at the end of the corridor, more proof that the apartments had been built recently and well before the shifting boundaries of the neighbourhood left them behind. Convenient though, with a sick man in the house.

The faint scent of illness and emotional distress came from underneath the door, strengthening as they entered the bedroom. Not so much as to be unbearable, but enough to be concerning. If Castiel didn’t know the history, he would presume a recent widower struck ill with a pernicious fever on top of his pining sickness. As it was, the smell reminded him very much of the early stages of the illness both he and the Detective were struggling to understand.

Samuel Winchester was a very tall Alpha in his mid twenties, made gaunt from repeated bouts of fever and malaise. His bones stood sharp against his skin, revealing the same kind of extraordinary physical beauty as his brother had; his forehead was high and broad, and his dark hair was shaved short for convenience during his long illness2. His fingers plucked at the covers with nervous energy, and his fever stood plain against the pallor of his skin.

“Hello, Mr Winchester,” Castiel began. “I’d like to conduct a thorough examination, if you don’t mind.”

“Please, call me Sam. Dean’s told me so much about you I feel like I know you already. Do whatever you need to, I’ll answer you questions as best I can. Dean might need to help me though, I can’t always remember the details of these episodes.”

The Detective seated himself on a stool out of the way of the bed, a faint blush staining his cheeks. “Thank you. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible, Sam,” Castiel said earnestly.

He began with the things that were easy to monitor - heart-rate, pulse, breath sounds, blood pressure, temperature - and noted them all down carefully in a new patient logbook, made up just for this occasion. He showed Detective Winchester how to take all of the measurements as well, for any future monitoring. He was a quick study and asked all of the right questions - being involved in the training of your doctors made Castiel acutely aware of what those were, in comparison to the wrong questions.

Next was testing to see if Sam’s movement had been impaired - it had not, although he was greatly weakened by his fever - and his reflexes. He inquired delicately as to bowel and bladder health - both still moved normally outside of the fever - and after his patient’s mental state.

That question saw the brothers arguing with a well-practised air. Sam proclaimed himself well; his brother called him a liar, and talked about weeping in the night and general low mood. Sam in turn said that he had no control over nightmares, and that anyone would have a low mood if they had his wretched illness. Detective Winchester scoffed at that, rolling his eyes and giving up on the argument with a dark and almost haunted look on his face.

Finally, Castiel drew some blood so he could perform a visual test for anomalies. He had a portable microscope with him for just that purpose, and retreated into the living space to count red blood cells and white blood cells3 on three different slides, each containing a ruby droplet.

Years of practice had made him swift about this kind of work, and it took only enough time for Sam to finish his re-heated gruel before Castiel returned to his bedside. “From everything you’ve told me and my own observations here, I’m satisfied that you’re generally recovering from this illness, and there appears to be little damage done to your body save what I would expect from repeated fevers. You should work more at building up your reserves in the weeks between these episodes, though. I appreciate that your appetite is slow to return, but any rich, fatty meat should help you put weight on.”

“See? I told you!” Detective Winchester hissed. Sam pulled a face at him but otherwise stayed still; he was growing tired now.

“I don’t consider this illness to be contagious, and it is evident that you are not malingering, which I am happy to convey to your employer if you think it would help. There’s one more test I would like to perform before I can let you rest. May I inspect your mating bite?”

On the other side of the bed Winchester drew a sharp breath in, clearly seeing where Castiel’s mind had gone. He nodded at Sam’s nervous look to him, but was clearly worried.

Sam took his scarf off with careful hands, a fine tremor of fatigue running through them. It was a lovely well-made thing; a gift from his lost mate, Castiel surmised. He undertook a visual inspection before he reached to touch mating scar; it was still very proud against the skin, almost like new. By now most bites would have begun to fade, eight months after losing one’s mate.

He cleaned his hands and the scar with rubbing alcohol before manipulating it gently. Sam cried out once but gritted out, “Continue, I can manage,” when Castiel raised his hands off the tender surface.

It was obvious that there was inflammation there; the flesh was heated and red, and there was a small but notable amount of swelling. It was harder to tell if there were any nodules such as had been found in Mrs Spadavecchia’s body. The nature of the bite meant that the skin was bumpy with scar tissue, and the gland itself was too tender for the kind of examination that might have revealed more.

He finished his investigation and took Sam’s pulse again; his heart was racing against the pain, but soon calmed down. The Detective tenderly wiped the sweat from his brother’s brow and tucked the scarf around his neck again gently, mindful of the abused gland underneath the skin.

“That was… inconclusive,” Castiel said carefully. “I would like you to come to the hospital once you have recovered your strength to see what more I can learn.”

“It stops hurting as much once I start getting better,” Sam murmured. His eyes had begun to droop. “But I will come in. Thank you, Dr Novak. You’re the first doctor I’ve seen who hasn’t just dismissed this as pining sickness.”

“Well, I have no idea what it actually is at this stage,” Castiel admitted. “But it’s clearly not pining for a lost mate. There’s too much glandular activity in general for it to be that.” He gathered his tools and stood. “I’ll leave you to sleep. Under other circumstances, it would have been a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to doing so again once you are well.”

Sam nodded, although his eyes stayed shut, and Detective Winchester followed Castiel out of the sick-room. He pulled a bottle of whiskey and two glasses out of a cupboard, pouring a generous finger into each of them and handing one to Castiel. “So, what are your thoughts really?” Winchester sat down heavily on a chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if it hurt.

There was an art print in the Modern Style4 over his head, and Castiel was briefly struck by the artistry of the juxtaposition, the broad shoulders and fine features of the Detective hanging below the flowing curves and strong lines of the print. He took a sip of whiskey to cover his distraction before answering. “The illness bears some surface similarities to the illness we are both investigating, but there are strong differences as well. First is the fact that he is still alive several months after the death of his mate. That should discount him as a suspect, but… I believe there may be the same gland involvement. I didn’t want to probe too deeply because of the pain it caused, but I believe I felt some discrete bumps on the surface.”

Winchester sucked a breath in and downed his whiskey in one. “Shit,” he cursed. “So he’s dying, then?”

“Not at all. I see no cause for concern as far as that goes. These episodes last around a week, you said, and are getting less severe? That suggests he is recovering. I think it is relatively safe to say that his illness is related to the more lethal form, but exactly how I cannot say at this stage. A related disease, like tonsillitis and quinsy? A weaker form of poison? I cannot tell - medical science is not yet far enough advanced to determine that. Only your own investigations might shed a light.”

The Detective breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. And don’t worry, I’m doing everything I can. I have a lot of interviews lined up over the next few days that should help draw some more lines on the map. I’m looking for more correlations.”

“The thought occurred to me that there might be more than one point of origin,” Castiel said. “For example, all of my patients are Beta couples. But the earliest couples seem to be, how should I put this, more unfashionable pairings. Perhaps different motivations inspired different deaths?”

Springing out of his seat, Winchester strode to the map board and began tracing out the pattern for himself. “Yes! I think you have it! I couldn’t find anything at all that would link the Spadavecchias with the Hamiltons, but if there’s no link because the murderers are different people, then that would mean…” He began wrapping the fine green thread around various pins, some widely spread and some clustered together, and in short order had most of them linked to at least one other pin.

“This is great, Doc, you’ve been real helpful tonight,” he grinned. It made the green sparkle in his eyes, Castiel thought inanely, before gathering his thoughts firmly.

“I did have one more task that I’d like to complete, if you’re amenable,” he admitted.

Winchester threw himself back into his chair with a satisfied smile. “Ask away, Doc.” It looked like a practised pose; Castiel was a little envious of the comfort it spoke to. He had never mastered such easy relaxation himself.

“The questions are about our recent experiences in the morgue and beyond. You said in your report that you felt very low in mood afterwards? What were the specifics?”

Once again, Winchester worried at his lip. “Um… I kept remembering really bad stuff from my childhood, and from my police work. Like my Momma dying, and my Pa leaving, and that kid who got tortured, and - well, you get the picture. I… I felt like I couldn’t do anything right, and that I didn’t deserve anything good.” He looked uncomfortable now, drawing in on himself in a defensive posture.

Castiel’s heart went out to him. “I went through the same thing. It seemed like God Himself was punishing me for my sins.” He took another fortifying sip of whiskey. “And now? Do you still feel the same?”

“I guess so,” Winchester replied doubtfully. “Not as strong though. Feels just like n - like general low mood.”

He had censored the word normal out of his speech there, but Castiel could neither blame him nor judge him harshly for it. “Me too,” he breathed. “As long as I keep busy it’s fine, but with everyone asking me about it all the time at the hospital, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I am truly sorry to put you through this again, Detective, but I hope it is of some consolation that you’re not going through this alone. Only a few more questions and then we can busy ourselves once more. When did the other symptoms abate, exactly?”

“The nausea… yesterday morning, it was hard eating breakfast, but it went away by lunchtime. The smell and taste were gone by the time I left the hospital. I had a headache all of yesterday too, not sure if it’s connected though.”

“No, that’s very helpful. I did too. Everything you’ve said tallies with my experience as well as Miss Moore’s. We’re through the worst of it, judging by her example.”

Another heartfelt sigh of relief. “When do you think we can be declared completely free of the illness, then?”

“Unfortunately, without knowing the incubation period of the disease, it’s not possible to guess. More work for you, I’m afraid. If you can capture the villains and they can be compelled to talk - or if a sample can be obtained, perhaps - then we can work it out.”

“I’ll need to think about that. Some of the Camorra families aren’t known for their patience when arranging deaths, so if they are using this in place of other murder methods then that suggests a relatively short time-frame. I’ll look closer at that.”

With that, Castiel’s questions were over, and he noted down the answers in medical shorthand whilst finishing his glass. “Thank you, Detective. This has been very helpful from my point of view too. I have further avenues of investigation myself, now.”

He rose, and they shook hands warmly before Castiel left the cosy apartment for the cold streets. Being in Winchester’s presence tonight had been thrilling, intellectually as well as on a more emotional level. It did not look like he had suppressed his feelings anywhere near enough.

Perhaps it was already too late for that.

 

Dean rested his head gently on the door once Dr Novak had left. He had a lot to think about regarding new directions for his investigation to go in, but in the meantime he had to make sure Sam ate again – the covered saucepan of gruel was very welcome there, and he had only had a small helping earlier – and Dean had a rather pressing problem to take care of.

As he moved through the apartment to check whether Sam needed anything, he was surprised by how much the Doctor's scent had lingered. He could practically follow it with his eyes closed, he was so sensitised to it; the faint smell of strong soap, the hint of pine used in the hospital to mask any less pleasant aromas, the aged cotton of that ridiculous overcoat, and the mouth-watering smell of the man himself underneath it all. Omega-rich and dangerously intoxicating, it bypassed Dean's mind and went straight to his heart. And... lower.

Sam was still asleep, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief and headed to the tiny room which housed his bed and clothes. The narrow window faced the wall of the next building, but he drew the curtains carefully before finally giving in and palming his aching knot.

Normally it only gave the occasional twinge of discomfort around Dr Novak; Dean kept a tight lid on his Alpha tendencies and desires, and aside from the occasional itch in his teeth and fullness in his knot, it was never a problem to be around the Doctor regardless of the intensity of Dean's feelings. But this evening, with the scent of the Omega all around him – in his own personal sanctuary, such as it was – he was helpless against the tide of lust that rose in him.

He already hated himself for what he was about to do, but it was even worse to try to suppress it: an unwanted erection would subside on its own, eventually, but nothing would get rid of the knot save release. Unbidden, his hand had already begun stroking himself to full hardness through his trousers; he took them off before the constriction became painful and found a towel to soak up the mess.

Already his body climbed towards its first release; his right hand moved quickly up and down his shaft, while his left toyed with the knot at the base. It began swelling to its fullest size and he stifled a groan, hips beginning to grind and thrust into the movement of his hands.

The towel lay on the bed before him and he bent over it with a gasp as the first pulse of release swept through him, angling his prick so that he spilled onto the towel and not the bedclothes. His head lolled back and he enjoyed the brief sensation of satisfaction before the next round inevitably began.

He had just enough time to take his vest off and crouch forward into his preferred position for this indignity before the next wave of aching desire swept upwards from his knot. At least this wasn't as bad as a rut, but it was still a protracted and painful experience at times.

Dean was nothing if not prepared, though; he kept a small jar of grease in a drawer for just this purpose. He fumbled it open and smeared it over his hand and prick to ease the movement of his hips into the tight circle of his fist. His bollocks were giving the sweet ache that spoke of another release in the near future.

The part of him that was always a detective noted that this was far faster and more frantic than his usual knot-inspired self-pleasuring, which was presumably down to the scent in the air. The rest of him just kept thrusting his hips faster and harder, again and again until he spilled all over his hand, the towel, and even his chest.

He never knew how long this would last for. He leaned back and breathed deeply for a few moments until the pressure began building again. This time he swapped hands and kept his movements purposefully light, and he pictured the Doctor in his mind's eye, unable to stop now that he had thought of him.

Christ, the man was beautiful: every part of him worthy of worship. For now, though, Dean kept his focus on Novak's fine-boned hands, imagining them doing the stroking rather than his own blunt and broad ones.

The Doctor would be precise in his movements, gentle and careful of Dean's aching knot and sensitive bollocks. A twisting stroke like so, followed with a delicate stroke around his knot; perhaps even a daring finger trailing further back, following the turgid flesh until it circled at his rim.

This time his orgasm took him by surprise, and hot ejaculate spattered over Dean's bare chest, each pulse of his knot releasing more of the creamy liquid.

One more time, he thought, before his body tired of this. He was barely given enough time to wipe himself down before all rational thought fled his mind and he was a mindless animal, jerking himself wildly and biting his fist to keep from crying out loud in excitement and longing.

This time took longer as his bollocks struggled to keep up with the demand, and he was forced to gag himself on his own vest in order to safely resume the massage of his aching, rock hard knot. But it was only when he pictured the Doctor naked on his hands and knees, a knowing smile on his face and slick beginning to run down his thighs, that Dean found his final release.

The towel was wet through by the time his knot finally began to recede, but he was at last able to relax. He curled up onto a guilty ball on his bed for a few more moments of self-indulgence.

This, here, was why Alphas were despised. Animal, base, disgusting, unworthy; Dean's actions had been immoral, his thoughts demeaning of the man he respected most in the whole world. He knew that this was no lingering effect of the substance he had been exposed to; he felt this shame every time he was forced to take care of a knot, every time he pleasured himself to thoughts of Novak’s eyes, or hands, or pert backside.

He put the unlucky towel in to soak for a long time in strong lye, and scrubbed himself with carbolic soap so that Sam would remain none the wiser. By the time he felt clean again, at least in body, Sam was stirring. Dean made two bowls of the gruel, giving himself some thick slices of bread to go with it, and made his way to his brother’s bedside, to tell stories and jokes to him until his voice was hoarse and Sam had finished his bowl and gone back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for homophobic language by a hate preacher, sexual bigotry towards Dean. If you're worried then skip over the two parts where Dean walks to work.

The walk to the 9th Precinct was long enough that Dean could plan his day before he arrived. Yesterday had been spent interviewing family members, servants and neighbors of the deceased and dying, covering an area far outside his normal hunting ground in the Village. As exotic as the locations had been, however, the information he had received was prosaic at best.

Of all of the couples affected by this illness, nearly all of them fit the profile of murder for revenge, profit, or simple hatred. Profit seemed to be the most common motive, closely followed by revenge. The deaths and illnesses caused by hatred were much harder to classify. Some seemed to be isolated incidents, but there was a cluster of deaths that pointed towards a multi-murderer fixated on couples who did not fit the traditional, church-approved pairings.

Dean was often singled out by street preachers who were incensed at lone Alphas wandering around their neighbourhoods, and he had been told many times that he would burn in Hell for the crime of stepping above his station. Lone Alphas were blamed for nearly all of the violent crime in New York, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

The case that had seen Dean promoted to Detective was when he had gone undercover into a sex ring specialising in kidnapping young Alpha men and selling their sexual services to rich Omegas. While many Alphas did sell their services in brothels voluntarily, few of them were happy to be raped and brutalised in an opium haze, their virginity sold to men and women who humiliated them and left them for dead.

It had been quite the scandal a decade ago, and for a time it had seemed that society at large was beginning to question the strict roles assigned to people based on their sex. Unfortunately, the mood had only lasted a short while before the next manhunt for a rogue Alpha had begun, and everyone had quickly forgotten the abuses of power perpetrated against vulnerable young Alpha men and Omega women.

He was nearly at the precinct when he was jostled by a Beta man who wasn’t looking where he was going. Dean was light on his feet and quickly regained his footing, but the other man was less lucky, and fell to the ground. Inwardly suppressing a groan, Dean reached a hand out and gave his most charming smile. “Let me help you up,” he offered politely. “Busy out today, isn’t it?”

The Beta man lashed out at his hand. “You pushed me, you clumsy oaf! Alpha brute. Were you hoping to rob me?”

Just like that, the crowd around them turned on Dean, glaring and muttering. Some large men started moving in Dean’s direction, beginning to hem him in. “I assure you, I did nothing of the sort. You fell into me. I have no intention of robbing you. I just want to be on my way.” He kept his voice as calm as possible, trying to project an air of innocence and trustworthiness.

The man was helped up by kindly matrons who glared at Dean while they dusted his “victim” off. He repeated his accusations, growing more and more angry as he did so, and some in the crowd began to claim that they had seen Dean doing things he simply had not done. This was going to turn nasty, and he had no back-up here.

Or so he thought. From out of nowhere Lieutenant Crowley and two uniformed officers came and began to control the crowd. “What seems to be the problem here?” Crowley drawled, his usual accent shifting into pure New York. “Something about an attempted robbery?”

“This Alpha threw me to the ground and attempted to commit robbery! In broad daylight! He should be arrested!”

“Oh, I’ll definitely arrest someone,” Crowley replied darkly. “Detective Winchester? What happened?”

The crowd looked around for a Detective in their midst, growing silent when Dean spoke up. “This man stumbled into me when he tripped on the curb, and fell over while I was trying to regain my balance. I offered to help him up. He accused me of assault and robbery.”

“So, let me understand this, you falsely accused one of my best Detectives of crimes he did not commit, and attempted to turn the crowd against him, which could have led to injury or even death. Is that about the size of it?” Crowley’s rage was palpable and the Beta man flinched back from it.

“You weren’t here, you can’t possibly have seen what happened!”

“On the contrary, my office overlooks the street, and I watched it unfold exactly as Detective Winchester said,” Crowley sneered. He was almost certainly lying, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. “Does anyone else here have anything more to say before I charge you with wasting police time and incitement to violence? You, Mrs Maury? How about you, Colonel Samuels? Miss Vanderbilt? No?”

The crowd shrank away from him, suddenly remembering that they hadn’t actually seen Dean do anything other than smile politely and hold out his hand to help. Dean’s eyes hurt from the strain of not rolling them.

“Just you then, Mr Marten,” Crowley growled at Dean’s accuser. “Now, if you apologise very sincerely to my officer here for lying about him and falsely accusing him, and for attempting to seek out mob justice instead of going to the bloody police, which I’ll note would have been easy because we are literally two bloody doors away, I’ll let you go about your business with nothing more than a caution. If not… the holding cells aren’t too full right now. We’ve got space for you.”

The man stammered out a begrudging apology to Dean whilst Crowley wrote the incident up. “If I ever hear that you’ve pulled anything like this again, you little weasel, I’ll have you strung up by the balls,” he hissed as he thrust a copy of the report at him. “And I’ll make sure every bloody precinct in the City know about this. Get out of my sight, you limp-dicked Omega aper.”

Dean and the officers had been watching all of this with carefully neutral expressions on their face, but once the man scurried off they exchanged wondering looks and raised eyebrows behind Crowley’s back. There weren’t many Alpha policemen in the City, and neither of the others were Alphas - one was Omega and one Beta - but the Police looked out for their own, and it was a pleasure to watch Crowley work.

“What the hell has got into this place,” Crowley growled. “One of you remind me to arrest that odious demagogue in Washington Park. I’ve had enough of this.”

The demagogue in question was a charismatic Alpha woman who specialised in peddling hatred and bigotry of all kinds. She was not unique, in Dean’s experience, but most such thinkers found work in government or religion. Or at least, most such thinkers who wished to convert others to their cause.

“You think she’s behind this?” Dean asked in an undertone, following Crowley into the Precinct and up the stairs, his familiar Beta scent clearing the sour indignation and anger of the crowd out of his nose.

“That prick Marten never had an original thought in his life. It’ll be her, or the Presbyterian preacher, and I can’t touch the Church without good cause. I’ll have a word, though. The new Commissioner1 is keen to see the law applied evenly, he can deal with the bloody consequences of that.”

The Lieutenant was still angry, then. Something else must be going on. He stopped abruptly at the top of the stairwell and turned to glower at Dean. “There’s pressure from above to manage your outbreak with a quarantine. If you have anything, Winchester, now would be the time to share. Everyone’s dragging their heels over actually declaring one, but it’s only a matter of time before the press notice what’s going on, or someone talks, and then there’ll be riots in the streets.”

Dean sighed. “I know. Everything I have is circumstantial right now. But it doesn’t look like the illness is contagious outside of mates, so my personal opinion is that a quarantine would be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Give me that in writing and I’ll pass it on to the Mayor’s office. And stay out of the Captain’s way today, he’s in a foul mood.” With that, Crowley strode into the office and started shouting at unwary detectives lounging around, seeming particularly angry at Walt and Roy. They probably deserved it.

Dean slipped through the room and did as he was asked, outlining all of the information he had regarding the primary and secondary victims, and the near total lack of connection to any other pairs of victims throughout the City.

He had been the first to see a pattern, nearly three weeks ago now, and as such he was the first in the City to start treating the mysterious deaths as murder cases. Captain Michaels, a very politically-minded Omega, had been more than happy for Dean to waste his time, as he put it, on investigating the deaths; he rarely gave Dean anything directly to do, even when the Precinct was busy.

He had nearly finished the report when Victor came storming out of the Captain’s office with a furious scowl on his face. A handsome Omega, Detective Henriksen should have been the darling of the precinct, but for the fact that his skin was too dark. His desk was beside Dean’s at the window, too hot in winter and too cold in summer, angled so that the sun half-blinded them for much of the day in spring and fall.

It was quiet, though, and afforded them some privacy from the rest of the detectives. “What’s wrong, Vic?” Dean whispered when he was seated.

He pushed a folder over to Dean with a look of disgust on his face. “The Captain, in his wisdom, has decided that I am the perfect person to tackle the robberies at the Zoo. The Precincts round Central Park need someone of my expertise there, because they believe the robbers are local hoodlums. From Harlem.”

Dean sucked air in through his teeth. “That’s rough, Vic, I’m sorry.” They both knew what that kind of secondment meant; Victor would be working in unfamiliar territory, dealing with officers who resented him and would blame him for any failures, whilst taking credit for any successes. They had each been through it before, in different ways.

“This is the last time,” Victor replied in a low voice. “If I don’t get recognition for this I’ll try my luck going private. Plenty of people out there need help they just don’t get because of thinking like his.”

Whilst New York was less overtly bigoted towards black people than some of the states he had passed through as a child, there were only a handful of black police officers in the City2, and all of them were Omegas. Victor constantly fought the prejudices of his fellow officers, as well as the prejudices of the City at large. Dean was sure that Vic had it worse than he did, in fact, and he had it pretty bad.

“You should think about joining me,” Victor said. “If and when I do leave, you’d be an excellent partner.”

“I‘ll think about it,” he muttered. “Don’t want to disrespect Uncle Bobby’s memory though, you know? He taught me everything about being a cop.”

“You’re not the one here who’s disrespecting his memory, Dean,” Victor replied, not bothering to keep his voice down. “I’ve got to go catch a trolley. Au revoir, mon ami.” His perfect French accent was something he used as a weapon, a marker of how educated and civilised he was compared to many of the officers around them. It didn’t make him popular, but it did make the point that by being here, he was slumming it3.

Dean left the precinct himself not long after, having delivered his painstakingly neat report to Crowley. He had two suspects in mind to begin narrowing down the investigation, the first because his name kept coming up as a political rival of the deceased or dying, and the second because of his well-known connections with two of the major Camorra families.

Councilman Morgenstern’s offices were near City Hall, and normally people needed to book his time in advance in order to be able to see him. Dean had always found it best to surprise politicians though, and he ruthlessly used his badge to jump the queue. Morgenstern’s secretary was clearly unhappy to see him, but he was seen through to the office in short order, the outright stares of the other people waiting there giving him a clue as to why.

Lucas Morgenstern was a tall man with blond hair, seated behind an imposing desk where the afternoon light illuminated him perfectly. He had risen to power quickly, making a name for himself as an Omega with a gift for persuading nearly everyone to do what he wanted. Whispers of corruption and bribery occasionally surfaced, but nothing had ever stuck to his perfect facade. A portrait of his Alpha wife hung on the wall; Lilith Morgenstern came from European money, and was incredibly beautiful. They were often seen around town together, at all the most fashionable venues.

That much Dean knew from the Society papers. As far as the Police were concerned, Morgenstern had deep pockets and a valet named Bartholomew who had been a person of interest in several cases of bribery, intimidation, and on one memorable occasion fire-raising. He was not a man to cross.

“Detective Winchester,” Morgenstern said with a charming smile that nevertheless set Dean’s teeth on edge. “How can I help you today? Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea or coffee? Brandy, perhaps, to take the chill away?”

Dean took the indicated seat but refused the drinks as politely as he could. It paid to err on the side of caution when poison might be involved. “I’m investigating the deaths of Iron Eddie and his mate, among others,” he began. “I wondered if you might be able to answer some questions about the last time you saw either of them.”

Morgenstern’s gaze sharpened, and the scent of anger rose off of him quite clearly. “Three weeks before the unfortunate death of Mrs Mercier, at a ball. We spoke for two minutes and were witnessed by the best and brightest of New York. Edouard Mercier I saw at his wife’s funeral. The poor man was nearly prostrate with grief.”

“The poor man, as you say, was dying of an illness related to the death of his wife, and I have reason to believe neither death was accidental. I am, of course, not accusing you of anything. But your relationship with Mr Mercier was well-known to be mutually antagonistic, and I am sure you understand that in order to investigate the tragic and painful deaths of Mr and Mrs Mercier,” Dean drew on all of Victor’s lessons to give the name the correct French pronunciation, although Iron Eddie himself hadn’t cared one fig about it, “I have to ask you these questions.”

“Of course,” Morgenstern replied coolly. “You’re only doing your job, Detective.”

“Yes. I am. You’re not the first person I’ve had to ask these questions to, and you won’t be the last.” Dean breathed carefully to control his own scent, feeling the frustration and anger beginning to build. There was something about the air in here that niggled at him. He knew better than to try and fight for it, though, so he put it to the back of his mind for the moment. “What about when you last saw the Hamiltons? They died two weeks ago, in similar circumstances.”

Morgenstern was good, he had to give him that, with a smooth answer to all of Dean’s questions about the dead and dying who were connected with him. One couple he was mystified about, which was the only answer Dean was sure was honest.

“One last question, before I go,” Dean said finally. “Have you ever been approached by anyone claiming to have a way to kill a mated couple? Or heard rumours of such a substance?”

“What a ridiculous question. Of course I haven’t. I would have reported it to the Police Commissioner immediately.” Morgenstern looked pointedly at his pocket-watch and pulled out a floral-scented handkerchief, sniffing it delicately in a pointed insult to Dean.

He was well accustomed to such insults though, and made a show of breathing in deeply and smiling. The scent of Omega was much thicker now, although it was cloying rather than enticing. “Thank you for your time, Councilman Morgenstern. Hopefully I won’t have any further questions, but if I do, I know where to find you.” He winked and strolled out of the office with a swagger calculated to rile delicate Omega sensibilities.

Halfway down the busy avenue outside, breathing in the chill evening air, he finally realised what his sensitive nose had been trying to tell him. The scent of Omega had not been coming from Morgenstern; he had been wearing it like a perfume, perhaps from the same handkerchief he had oh-so-subtly tried to insult Dean with.

It would explain why the rest of his body had reacted so oddly, only it wasn’t odd at all; Morgenstern was an Alpha, and he had been trying to intimidate Dean with precisely controlled aggressive posturing that Dean’s mind couldn’t understand when coming from an Omega man. He was almost tempted to turn back just to give the man a round of applause; he had rarely seen such a subtle display before, but he thought better of it.

Uncle Bobby would have warned him to keep his knowledge hidden. “Always let them think you’re stupider than you are, my boy. They’ll underestimate you. Use that,” echoed the old man’s voice in his memory. Dean would keep this revelation to himself. Impersonating an Omega was still a crime in some states, but there was nothing on the statute books of New York about it. Morgenstern would only face social censure, although it would ruin his career.

Dean wasn’t unsympathetic to it either; he’d known young Alpha boys who, in desperation at being abandoned by their families, had attempted to castrate themselves. At least Omega girls, fecund and beautiful, could be married off to someone desperate for children. Outside of manual labour or the army, though, there was little place for Alpha men.

The injustices of the world had used to make him rage as he threw himself against them. Now, he was just tired of fighting all the time. He had too much other work to do, and not enough time to do it all in.

He contemplated stopping in at Greenwich Grace to see how things were going, but he knew that Dr Novak would keep him updated with anything important. The impulse to see the Doctor was growing harder to resist, though. Dean missed his wry commentary as much as he missed his rich scent.

He was beyond mere infatuation now, he realised with a pang of pain. His own feelings had to be detectable to everyone in the hospital by now; no wonder Hannah always made her disdain so clear. No, it was better not to stink the place up if he didn’t have to.

Dean trudged back home, brooding and a little heartsick.

 

Sam was beginning to reach the end of his fever, although he was still querulous and crochetty when Dean woke him for breakfast the next day. “More of this gruel? I’m getting tired of it, Dean,” he groaned.

“You need to eat, you heard what the Doc said,” Dean replied tersely. “And you always complain about my porridge, so gruel it is. I can toast some bread, if you want.”

“It makes crumbs,” Sam complained. He ate the gruel grudgingly, managing a whole bowl under Dean’s hawk-like eye as he ate his own porridge (which wasn’t too sweet, whatever Sam said).

“Do you have everything you need? The newspaper, your books, I cleaned out the chamber-pot, I’ll get the barley water and snacks before I go,” Dean counted off, checking the room to make sure everything was in place and organised. “Would you like the curtains open or closed?”

“Open, please. You don’t need to fuss, Dean, I’m getting better.”

Having to help Sam into the toilet to use the facilities really made Dean doubt the truth of that statement, but he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to start an argument before work. Sam was always like this at this stage of his illness; it always passed. Dean just had to ride it out. “Is there anything you want to eat this evening?” he asked cautiously once Sam was settled back in bed.

“Maybe some chicken,” Sam replied diffidently. “Or vegetable soup.”

“How about chicken and vegetable soup?” Dean suppressed his own grimace at the thought of even more soup. He could have a couple meat pies for lunch to fill him up. “I’ll try to be back early to start the pot.”

“Sounds nice, thank you.” Sam gave him a small smile. “I’m sorry I’m being so difficult, Dean, I know how hard you’re working. I feel awful for putting you through this.”

Dean scoffed, and rubbed his knuckles over Sam’s head, the short hairs prickly against his skin. “Who else would I get to look after, hey? Besides, it makes me look good. All the pretty Omega girls think I’m wonderful for this.” But not the one Omega man he wanted, unfortunately.

Sam snorted and managed a watery smile. “I’ll see you later, Dean. Have a good day at work.”

Dean finished his preparations and began the long walk to work. His plan was to go to Little Italy after checking in at the precinct, where he could combine police work with getting ingredients for his soup, except the chicken, which he ordered at his usual butcher to pick up in the evening.

His walk to work was less eventful than the previous day, although he passed a street preacher who had collected quite a crowd around him.”God created them Male and Female4! This is why we honour Omega men and Alpha women, because they are the closest to God’s vision for mankind!

“Marriage, meanwhile, is between a man and a woman. Just as Omega men and Alpha women are the perfect marriage of male and female within themselves, so too must our marriages reflect this balance! That is why marriages such as those taking place at City Hall tomorrow are shams! There is no reflection of God in them!”

Most of the people in the crowd were nodding along, but there were a few Alpha men and Omega women who were showing disgust, anger, or fear in their faces or postures. Dean caught the eye of all of them and jerked his head to one side, indicating they should leave the group, with a couple of flashes of his badge to the angriest Alpha men.

“Crowds like that are no good for folks like us,” he said quietly to the seven of them once they had all withdrawn to a safe distance. “They can turn on us quick as you like, and they’ll take any excuse to turn violent.”

“It’s not right!” burst out one of the young Alphas, more a boy than a man. “They shouldn’t say things like that about us! They shouldn’t get to treat us that way!”

“I don’t like hearing it either, kid, but my job is to protect citizens, and right now that means making sure you stay safe from the likes of them. You all understand me? I want to keep you safe. Sometimes that means fighting, for sure, but sometimes it means making sure that these ladies get home safe and aren’t hurt by anyone, you hear me?”

The three Omega women were huddled together, two still afraid and one defiant. “We get angry about this too,” the defiant one said in a quiet but self-assured voice. “You Alphas aren’t alone in that. If we stand together, we have a better chance of finding justice for us all.”

An agitatrix5 for equal rights, then. One of the older Alpha men sneered at her. “You want us all to be calm and nice and castrate ourselves for the greater good? I’ve heard your kind before.”

“No,” she snapped, and the force in her voice made the Alpha jerk back in surprise. “Sometimes violence is called for. Usually it’s protection that’s needed, this cop’s right. And those mating ceremonies tomorrow at City Hall will need plenty of bodies round about them to celebrate their marriages and drown out the chants of assholes like that guy.”

She was good, giving them something to focus on and be productive about. Might not help in the long run, but right now the Alphas were calming down and the Omegas were looking inspired. Dean nodded to them all. “Sounds like a good plan. Might even join you myself, if I have time. I’ll see what I can do about getting that preacher to move on in the meantime. Ladies, gentlemen, stay safe out there.”

They murmured polite goodbyes, beginning to form a plan for tomorrow already, and Dean turned back to the preacher. To his surprise he found the crowd already breaking up, courtesy of his colleague Charlie Bradbury who was serving a warrant to the preacher over theft from his own church.

Dean caught her eye and signalled to see if she wanted help, but she refused with a cheerful smile and continued relating the details of the crime to a new crowd, this time one that was enjoying the street theatre. He left her to her work and continued to the precinct. He could catch up with her later.

His desk had a formidable pile of notes and letters on it from various coroners and religious leaders relating to deaths dating back for three months or more. The letter from the City Morgue was even polite, which meant that the coroner was worried enough to put aside his long-standing grudge against Dean in the hope of finding answers. There was also a forwarded bundle from Dr Novak, with a brief note on his findings so far.

Everyone seemed to be worried, and they were all starting to recognise the symptoms of their patients or worshippers in the newspaper reports about the deaths of Iron Eddie and others. It was only a matter of time before panic really took hold; Dean had seen it before, in a cholera outbreak in Virginia he had had the misfortune of witnessing when he was twelve. Fortunately, sleeping in a barn upstream from the town had kept his whole family safe.

He filed the letters away carefully, making notes of all of the new names and dates of death, and start of symptoms where that was known, and headed the few blocks south east into Little Italy. Ricardo Romano, Dean’s target for the day, was a businessman who owned several properties and business ventures, mainly in Little Italy but some in the wider City. The Camorra families he was connected to were known to have committed multiple crimes, although getting anything to stick was very hard work.

Rumour had it that Romano had been looking to expand his empire. He faced considerable opposition from some of the other Camorra families, but the in-fighting rarely stayed in house. Rumour also said that Roosevelt had his sights on Romano, but if so the Commissioner was moving very slowly.

Romano kept an office in the heart of Little Italy, and Dean knew he was being watched as he walked through the streets. He wasn’t being threatened as such, but it was still meant to be disturbing.

It was also a little surprising. He had expected this on the way out, but not on the way in. Then again, if Romano and his people had been murdering with impunity for several weeks, they had to know that eventually the police would take note.

Dean was shown into Romano’s office straight away when he arrived, confirming his suspicions that he had been expected. The leader of the most deadly gang in the City was almost as tall as Dean, with slicked back hair and a pleasant cologne enhancing his natural Omega scent in stark contrast to Morgenstern’s deception yesterday. “Ah, the remarkable Detective Winchester. Here to solve crimes and protect the people. Of what particular crime shall I be accused today?”

“No accusations, just a few questions, Signor Romano,” Dean replied easily. “There’s been a few deaths recently that I’m looking into, and one of the victims mentioned that one of the Camorra families might be involved. Obviously, a fine upstanding gentleman such as yourself wouldn’t have any personal experience of such criminal activity, but as a community leader you’re an obvious person to ask.”

“The Camorra are used as, what is that charming word, boogeymen by many Italian families. They imagine that such gangs exist and blame them for the slightest misfortune,” Romano said carelessly. “I am concerned to hear of deaths, though. Please, ask your questions.” He sat back and relaxed, clearly not worried about anything that Dean might have to say.

Dean asked about the victims he had identified as having Camorra connections somehow. Most, like the Spadavecchias, were people who had resisted them in some ways, but there had been several recent infections of people who were directly connected to one of the rival families.

Romano smiled like a shark when he heard the names of the latter couples. “How sad, that they will all die. I shall pray for their souls.” He shrugged at Dean’s expression. “As you say, they are well known to us as criminals, predators on the weak. I suppose one of the other Camorra families could have poisoned them, I have heard that some of the Milanese like to use such methods. After the great de Borgias, of course.”

“Interesting that you say poison when I haven’t talked about how they were killed,” Dean said brightly. “Have you heard anything about a poison like that?”

Romano went from easy-going to cold fury in a moment. “Do not presume to know what I know, policeman,” he sneered, but it was all bluster to Dean’s eyes. “It was merely a thought. I have heard the rumours of a plague, and I know that poison sometimes looks like disease, and that the Milanese have always liked to kill from a distance. But it is not the way of most Italians to kill slowly. We prefer other methods.”

The threat was clear, but Dean had all he needed for the moment anyway. “I bow to your superior knowledge. If you happen to hear of any such poisons being sold, do please report it to the Police. We’re here to keep the peace. Buon giorno, Signor. I won’t take any more of your time.”

The feeling of being watched was more intense on the way out, but no-one tried to start anything and his bag of winter vegetables and sprigs of fresh herbs remained unmolested. Dean wasn’t sure if that was because Romano was more angry at himself than Dean, or whether it was more that his watchers respected food too much to try to ruin it.

Either way, he returned to the Precinct in good time and was able to catch up with his runners over some street food, which Dean always tried to buy for them so they had at least one hot meal a day.

Ed and Harry were two young Alpha boys who had been caught by Dean when the gang they ran with zigged when they should have zagged. Ed was short and finally beginning to put on some weight, while Harry had the stringy look of someone who hadn’t stopped growing yet. Mindful of his own time on the streets, Dean had tried to provide them with respectable employment to keep them out of trouble, and in return they passed on the word among the forgotten youth of the City.

Today that word was worried, with whispers of mysterious illnesses targeting Alphas and gangs of men throwing bodies in the Hudson. Dean didn’t want to add fuel to the fire, but he made a note to ask around his colleagues who worked on the waterfront to see if they could corroborate the rumours. Or at least mention it to Charlie, who usually concentrated on that area.

She shook her head when he asked about it back inside the Precinct, crossing her legs demurely in her mannish and highly fashionable trousers 6. “No unexpected bodies, although I heard a couple of pigs were thrown in a week ago when they got sick.”

“Yeah, that figures,” Dean sighed. “At least it’s not more sinister. How are you doing? Any headway on the Goldmann case?”

“Found her holed up in a brothel, hiding with her lover. Apparently the stepmother was pressuring her to marry a cousin, and she thought that faking a kidnapping would mean she could get out of it.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “The father paid the fine and took his little girl back with open arms. No word on what the stepmother thinks.”

She looked disgusted with the whole affair. As an Alpha woman, she - like Victor - should have been able to rise higher in the estimation of the Precinct than she had managed. The problem was that her love affairs were indiscreet and decidedly unfashionable, and she had been given the thankless task of trying to solve crimes committed by or against prostitutes. The Goldmann case had been a chance to prove herself, or so she had hoped.

“So it’s back to reports and rumours for me,” Charlie sighed. “At least it keeps me busy.”

“Maybe you can keep an ear open for me, then. Dick Romano, unprompted, mentioned that the deaths I’m investigating have something to do with poison. That makes me think he might be right, and if it’s poison…”

“It’ll be on sale!” she finished in an excited whisper. “I can do that, Dean, I’ll get my girls on it.” Charlie’s “girls” were a ragtag collection of tarts-with-hearts, both female and male, who were happy to share anonymous details with her in return for protection from the worst of the police out there, who demanded use of their unique services for free and frequently took them against their will.

“You’re an angel, Charles,” he said fondly. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably be dead. I’ve saved your life twice, you know. But who’s counting?”

“You are, apparently,” he grinned. She was like family to him, in his heart as well as to his instincts, and he always loved spending time with her.

Their bonhomie was ruined in an instant by the Captain walking past with a guest in tow and giving them his coldest look. “Detectives. I trust neither of you are wasting police time?”

“No, Sir,” Dean said. “I’ve actually made some headway. I’ll have the report on your desk in an hour.”

“I wouldn’t want to disturb your social calendar, Winchester. Why don’t you share your, a-ha, headway with the room?”

Dean had to concentrate hard not to grit his jaw obviously. “Well, if you think it’s best for me to discuss police business with your companion here, then of course.”

“Dr Adler is a close personal friend and a member of my very exclusive club. He’ll keep whatever business you share confidential.” Captain Michaels’ tone was freezing. Next to him, Dr Adler smirked at Dean’s discomfort, pulling a handkerchief out ostentatiously at the supposed insult of Dean’s personal odour.

“As you say, Sir,” Dean snapped back with military precision. “I was requesting Detective Bradbury’s assistance in tracking down a poison I believe is connected to the murder cases I’ve been investigating.”

“The University doctors and the city coroner say there is no evidence that the deaths are not merely the tragic result of a new illness, Detective. I suggest you find some actual evidence before treating your wild theories as fact.”

“With all due respect, Sir, I’m not looking for a poison based on my theories. I’m looking for one because Dick Romano suggested there was one.” Dean smiled beatifically. “Didn’t even have to press him.”

The look of dismissal vanished from the Captain’s face. “You got Romano to talk? Good God. Are you sure he wasn’t playing you?”

“This nose doesn’t lie, Captain,” Dean said seriously. “He was real angry I caught his slip. And the medical evidence points away from an infectious disease, not least because, outside of their mates, none of the family, servants or friends of the sick show any sign of infection.”

Michaels nodded. “Get me that report, Winchester. I’ll brief the Mayor and the Commissioner myself.” The coolness always present in his eyes when he looked at Dean was absent. “Back to work, everyone.”

Dr Adler shot Dean one more disgusted look before he disappeared with Michaels into the Captain’s office. “Well, Adler’s a real charmer. Think the Doc’s butted heads with him a few times.”

“Dr Adler, Christian name Zachariah, Beta, works at the University of New York, goes to the same club as the Captain and a whole lot of other boring conservative people,” Charlie rattled off. “Unmarried, frequents the type of brothels that keep secrets well but no more than once a month.”

“You know, Charles, sometimes you’re terrifying,” Dean said with a shake of his head. “Let’s get back to work. Don’t want to lose all that goodwill I’ve built up too soon.”

 

It was later than Dean liked when he left the precinct, so he took the trolley home and ran to get to the butcher’s before it closed so he could pick up his pieces of chicken. Knowing Sam was ill again, the butcher threw some bones as well for the broth and refused payment for them. “Not necessary, Dean. They’ll just go to waste now. Take them, and I hope your brother’s back on his feet soon.”

Dean thanked him profusely and headed home on light feet despite the long day. His neighbourhood wasn’t glamorous, or even particularly nice, but it was full of good people with kind hearts, generous even when they had little themselves. He wished that other people could see that.

His thoughts turned, as they frequently did, to Dr Novak. What had he made of the neighbourhood when he walked through it a few days ago? Had he seen the kindness, or just the roughness? Could he see beneath the exterior into the heart of the place?

That was always the question, and the answer eluded Dean now as ever. He scoffed at himself as he walked up his apartment stairs and prepared himself for a night of caring for Sam. Useless to think about might-bes in the face of so much that needed to be done right now. Better to put it out of his mind, and work hard.


	5. Chapter 5

After the distress of the first autopsy, Castiel and Miss Moore prepared themselves thoroughly for the second. Mr Morris had died overnight, and he and his mate had agreed that both of their bodies would be available for complete autopsy. The von Brauns were still debating it; there were some religious principles that would be violated, Castiel understood, but they both seemed keen to use their personal tragedy as a means to help others as much as possible.

The mask over Castiel’s nose and mouth was thick and heavily scented with carbolic soap. A further, stronger, preparation of carbolic acid was immediately to hand in case top-ups were needed, and there were basins within arms reach for both himself and Miss Moore to retreat with, should the need become pressing. They were gloved and robed, and all of the surfaces and tools had been thoroughly scrubbed down.

The lesions in Mr Morris’ lungs were far more advanced but his mating gland showed only three infected nodules, and there was no evidence of the putrefaction present in Mrs Spadavecchia. There was also evidence of further glandular involvement throughout the lymphatic system, and what appeared to be recent damage to the liver linked directly to his illness. Either the illness itself had caused it, or it had exacerbated an underlying condition; Castiel suspected the former but needed to investigate the latter before ruling it out.

Whilst the scent arising from the infected mating gland appeared to be far less potent than that of their previous autopsy, they still both felt faintly distressed upon leaving the autopsy room after closing the body up. Castiel had only barely been able to detect it, and Miss Moore not at all, but the effect was still observable by both of them.

“Well, I think we can safely say that this substance is not stopped by carbolic, at least,” Castiel sighed wearily when they had ensconced themselves safely back in his office. With the fire stoked up and multiple lamps and candles burning it was very hot, but it relieved some of the feelings of despair lingering in them both.

“Even when thoroughly washed and scented, sometimes people can still detect heat or rut odours on bedsheets,” Miss Moore began slowly. “Perhaps this is like that? Some pervasive molecule1 that cannot be contained by a barrier of mere cloth but goes directly into the nose?”

“That suggests a series of fascinating experiments that we don’t have the time for right now,” Castiel replied with deep regret. “If your hypothesis holds, though, we might protect ourselves better with breathing masks. I’ll look into finding some. We can’t risk this feeling every time we conduct an autopsy.” He would have to write to his colleagues as well with this suggestion, although they might have already worked it out independently.

“I believe we are making progress, though,” Miss Moore ventured tentatively. “There are clearly two forms of the disease, based on our autopsies and the symptoms shown by the patients, and we might be able to tailor the treatment more effectively. The light and warmth in here certainly seems to be helping me greatly, I wonder if we could try it with the secondary infection patients?”

Castiel nodded. “I doubt it will cure them, but it might alleviate some of their symptoms, at least. Effective palliative care might be the only thing we can do right now, but that’s a worthy goal itself.”

They continued talking quietly until they both felt sufficiently recovered to leave their small haven. Dr Masters had also been a good conversationalist, but she had been far more overtly cynical than Miss Moore was. Castiel still missed his friend and colleague; he had spoken up for her at the time of the scandal, but ultimately had not been able to help her keep her career. Too many people believed that lying about her secondary sex meant that she could not be trusted as a doctor, and so she had been stripped of her degree and sent into ignominy.

Since then, he had worked with a succession of young doctors from the University; the last had left a few weeks before the typhoid outbreak had begun, leaving him short-handed but for Miss Moore’s excellent assistance. He hoped she would continue here after she qualified. She was a good fit with the ethos of the hospital.

Overnight, the last typhoid patient suffered a crisis which saw Castiel spending desperate hours at her bedside, fighting for her life. Her fever finally broke around dawn - so strange, how often that happened - and he was able to catch a brief catnap in lieu of proper rest. He awoke to the morning papers and a small sheaf of correspondence from various colleagues around the city, all with news of more cases of the mysterious illness.

The city was approaching a crisis point just as his patient had, but in this case, there was no treatment plan on the horizon. Castiel tried not to weep as he penned a note in a shaky hand to Detective Winchester summarising the new cases, too exhausted to properly fight the feeling of helplessness in the face of this implacable and deadly foe. It took some time to feel more balanced again.

The only sliver of good news was a message from his cousin Gabriel, stating his intention to visit later that day; Castiel’s housekeeper must have had it sent to him. He wrote another note, this time in much better humour, to inform Gabriel that he would be delighted to see him but that it would have to be at the hospital, because he could not be spared right now.

He ignored the newspapers completely, which proved to be an error when the first of his patients - a man with a compound fracture in his arm, grey-faced and grim against the pain of it - interrogated him about the mysterious new disease plaguing the city.

“Well, Mr Walker, I really can’t say much beyond what you already seem to know,” Castiel began carefully.

“It was all over the Times this morning. They were talking about a quarantine of the infected.” Walker’s eyes darted around the ward, as if expecting to see plague-ridden bodies in the beds; he seemed disappointed when all he saw was Miss Harvelle, here with an infected knife-wound from breaking up a fight which she was very embarrassed about, and Mr Turner, who had broken his hip and was deeply unhappy about the indignity of it.

“Well, that is a sensible precaution if the illness proves to be communicable. Right now we just don’t know enough about it. The best thing to do is to remain calm, and practise good basic hygiene. Now, I believe I can persuade the bone back into its right place without needing to operate, but it will hurt a great deal. I’ll fetch a nurse and something for the pain, and I’ll need to clean the area thoroughly with carbolic acid first, which will sting.”

Walker gave his agreement and sat stoically through the disinfection process. Mrs Tran looked too small and frail to hold the much larger and well-built Walker down, but Castiel knew the strength that lay in her arms and had no fear that the patient would struggle too much. By the time the laudanum had begun to cloud Walker’s eyes, Mrs Tran was in position and giving Walker his leather belt to bite down on.

“On the count of four, Nurse Tran,” Castiel said calmly. They pulled together on three, as always, and Walker grunted in pain as they pulled his arm back into position. The bone slid back into place with little difficulty, but the site of the wound began bleeding freely and they worked quickly to stitch, clean, and bind the wound.

By the time they had splinted the arm, Walker was drifting in an opium haze, watching the spiralling of dust in the sunlight with a faint smile on his face. “Thanks, Doctor,” he slurred when Castiel was finished. “You’re a good one.”

“Get some rest, Mr Walker. We’ll see how you’re doing after lunchtime.”

Suppressing the urge to have another nap, Castiel read the newspaper article thoroughly before attending to his other patients. It was full of the usual hysteria and moral outrage; the Times was notoriously prejudiced about any couples who were not female Alpha and male Omega, or male Beta and female Beta, and they too had noted that many of the earlier victims were outside of that norm.

The pieces in the other papers trended similarly, each interpreting the events depending upon their own political leanings. All of them were dangerous. It seemed that the Commissioner had finally been forced by the Mayor to make a statement to the press, who were now doing their “civic duty” and whipping up fear and panic about the tragic victims of this illness.

Castiel was still unconvinced it was an infectious disease. He had not been able to isolate any bacterium in the lung lesions or the mating glands from harvested tissue, and the blood samples of the patients still living showed nothing more than an abnormally elevated white blood cell count. There were theorised animalcules2 which were too small to be seen even through the most sensitive microscopes, so it could perhaps be one of those, but he was not yet satisfied that it was not some kind of deliberate poisoning.

That train of thought had led him to reach out to his cousin in the first place. Gabriel and his wife Kali were notable explorers and scientists - she had honed her craft in Oxford, England3, and returned to her native India with it, where she and Gabriel had met nearly a decade before. Since then, they had travelled the world looking for dangerous plants and animals and categorising them.

It was a strange career for a serial prankster, but Gabriel had been fascinated with what plants could do after an unfortunate poison ivy prank that Castiel remembered with terrible clarity nearly three decades later. Gabriel had become more temperate with age, but not enough to satisfy Castiel’s long grudge.

Still, he liked and respected his cousin for all that, and was looking forward to seeing him for his own sake, not merely for the sake of his knowledge. He made sure there were a number of cakes and biscuits available for Gabriel’s notoriously sweet tooth and returned to his slides to await his arrival.

Distracted by his search for a pathogen, Castiel only realised that Gabriel was in the room when he noticed the brilliant orange snake winding up his arm. He froze instantly, and heard a familiar laugh.

“Ten minutes, Cassie, that’s an impressive amount of time not to notice a snake crawling around your body. Come back to papa, beautiful, that rude man will never appreciate you.” Gabriel coaxed the snake back around his own arm and sat back down with a cheerful smile.

“I will certainly never appreciate it now, Gabriel!” Castiel exclaimed once his heart rate returned to something approaching normal. “How many people have you scared half to death with that thing?”

“Oh, a dozen or so. They all know I’ve returned from Africa so they think mamba straight away. She’s just a harmless grass snake, aren’t you darling?” he cooed. “Mambas are much larger and Kali wouldn’t let me keep one because they’re incredibly lethal.”

“Oh, good,” Castiel replied faintly. He scrubbed at his face and hair until he had recovered what little composure he could find. “I asked you here for a reason, Gabriel, not to be terrified into paralysis by you.”

“What, not just the pleasure of my company then? How rude. It’s been months, Cassie, you could at least comment on my cravat, or something.” Gabriel pouted at him.

Castiel did feel guilty over that, so he studied his cousin’s appearance and complimented the cravat, which was in truth very nice. “You’re looking very well all round, Gabriel. This last trip must have agreed with you.” He smelled healthy too, the familiar scent of family winding together with some softer overtones that - oh. Oh! “Gabriel! You’re pregnant! You devil, how dare you make me work it out!”

“Well, you’re the doctor, Coz, I thought it would be obvious,” Gabriel replied with his usual irrepressible humour. He bit his lip and looked away. “I think I’m just over three months gone, but I haven’t actually told anyone yet. You’re the first to know other than Kali. We hadn’t thought… well, never mind that now, the baby’s survived a transatlantic crossing so I’m sure…”

“Would you like me to give you a check-up? To ease your mind?” Castiel asked carefully. Gabriel loathed being treated as if he were mortal, but he and Kali had suffered more than one miscarriage each, and some of the extended family had made it very clear that they considered Gabriel at fault.

Gabriel nodded. “Please. You’re the best doctor I know. And you have to be nice to me because I’m your favourite relative.”

Well, he was right about that. “Open your shirt and unbutton your pants, please, and lie down on the bed. I have everything here. Do you want me to do an internal examination as well?” Castiel would rather not, it was always awkward treating people he cared about, but he was prepared to do whatever Gabriel needed to feel reassured.

“Um… maybe. Let’s find out if it’s alive, first.” Gabriel was now quite uncharacteristically subdued, and he made no effort to make any inappropriate jokes or lewd comments when Castiel knelt beside him.

The first touch of the stethophone4 made Gabriel twitch, he had always been very ticklish, but he remained quiet and still as Castiel patiently searched his lower abdomen for the faint trill of a heartbeat. It took long enough for Gabriel’s hands to clench in worry before Castiel found what Gabriel so desperately wanted him to hear. “Got it,” he murmured. “Strong heartbeat, normal rhythm. The baby was just hiding for a little while. Must get it from you.”

“Thank God,” Gabriel breathed. His hands fluttered to his belly. “Thank God.”

“It feels as if you’re right about the age, you’re just starting to show, but I’d need to perform an internal exam to be sure. Or get Miss Moore to perform one, that might be easier on both of us.”

“Yeah, I love you, Coz, but I don’t relish the thought of your hand up my ass,” Gabriel said drily. Castiel blushed furiously and finally Gabriel’s familiar infuriating smirk reappeared. “Maybe before I go. Just to make sure nothing else is wrong down there.” Gabriel tidied himself up whilst Castiel looked away politely. “Anyway, what’s wrong, little Coz? I’m at your disposal.”

Castiel summoned a smile, all of his cheer at the good news gone in an instant, and busied himself with making a fresh pot of tea. “You’ve seen the papers today, yes?”

“That talk of plague? I presume you think it’s wrong, or you would have warned me not to come here, I hope.”

“It’s only transmittable between mates, as far as we can tell so far. The victims - none of this makes sense, from a medical perspective, for it to be an infectious disease. We believe it to have been deliberately introduced to the victims in some fashion, and used as an arcane method of murder.”

“There’s a lot of sick people for one murder spree, Cassie,” Gabriel began slowly. “You’d need a lot of evidence to prove it in court.”

“We have it, or at least, there are a lot of links between specific victims. Detective Winchester has uncovered three different starting points now, but we need to know more information about the illness itself in order to convince the Chief of Police that this is murder rather than accident. And in the meantime, people keep dying, and I cannot help them.” Castiel paused, and swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. “It’s more than just murder. It’s torture of the worst kind. Those poor people, trapped inside their own minds at the bitter ends - the mind that came up with this is truly diseased. And evil,” he ended on a whisper.

“Dad’s blood5, Cassie, of course I’ll do everything I can,” Gabriel swore. “Have some brandy, please, you’re making me feel queasy just looking at you.” He added a generous splash to Castiel’s cup from a hip-flask, and Castiel drank it gratefully.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel, I had little sleep last night and it’s been a… a very trying few weeks. It’s - the symptoms are - I suppose I should start from the beginning and tell it in order.”

He did just that, aware that he was making the story as dry and dull as the worst lectures he had attended but unable to think of a better way to keep his emotions in check. Gabriel listened attentively, and even made one or two notes on a leaf of paper, which Castiel supposed was a good sign.

“And that brings us to today,” he finished with a sigh. “I don’t expect my fourth patient to last out the night - honestly, it’s a testament to the stubbornness of the man that he has managed to hold on for so long. The fever is consuming him, and his organs are beginning to fail. And with fear of the illness spreading… I worry for the city.”

“So should we all, it seems,” Gabriel agreed gravely. “Let us do what we can, then. The breathing equipment I can help with, there’s a man at the Adventurer’s Club who owes me a favour or two, and I’ll speak to Kali about the symptoms of this illness. They do seem similar to some natural poisons that I’ve heard of and seen.”

“If we can narrow down the substance then that should help to narrow down the perpetrators. Even if there’s no antidote, if there’s proof that it is a poison then that should mean my patients are safe from a frightened mob, at least.”

“I wonder how the mates are infected too, though. You say the symptoms are slightly different? That rings a faint bell.”

Castiel nodded, taking another sip of tea and briefly choking on unexpected brandy. “Yes, I had some thoughts on that. Based on our experiences in the first autopsy, and the fact that it only seems to affect mated couples, I wonder if the bite itself might be the key, here? Or rather, the mechanism behind why mating bites work as they do.”

Gabriel rubbed his own mating scar unconsciously. “Yes, I’ve wondered about those too. Different cultures deal with them very differently, you know. It makes a person think.” He settled back in his chair and selected another piece of cake daintily. “This is all very infuriating. I see now why you’re quite so obsessed with it.”

Fortunately for them both, perhaps, Castiel was stopped from replying to this comment by a knock at the door, which was pushed gently open to reveal Detective Winchester.

“Dr Novak? I was just - oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had company,” he apologised gruffly. “Although - did you know you have a snake in your lap?”

Castiel swore and glared at his cousin, who began sniggering unrepentantly. “Gabriel, so help me, if you do not deal with this infernal creature I will strangle you with it,” he threatened, but it was Detective Winchester who came to his rescue, picking the snake up with a firm hand and returning it to its owner. “Thank you, Detective. May I present my cousin, Gabriel Milton, the most annoying man in the Northern Hemisphere. Gabriel, this is Detective Winchester, my co-investigator. Feel free to take a seat. Gabriel was just leaving.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Gabriel denied cheerfully. “I was having more cake.”

“You’ll end up the size of a house,” Castiel warned, but Gabriel shrugged and offered the plate to Winchester.

As he reached out to take a piece, Castiel noticed a dark, wet mark on his right sleeve where the black wool caught the light. “Did that creature bite you? Your arm - is it injured?”

“What? No, I held the head, I was a good country boy - wait, how the Hell did that get there?” Winchester looked perplexed as he investigated his fingers came away bloody. “It’s soaked through, how did that happen,” he murmured, but it was obvious when he took the overcoat off. His jacket and shirt had been sliced through where his arm had been cut, and it was deep enough and ragged enough to have bled copiously. “Well, shit,” Winchester said blankly, the shock of the injury clearly beginning to catch up with him..

Castiel guided him to his own chair in an instant, taking the ruined jacket off and rolling up the shirt sleeve to reveal the injury. “You didn’t feel this?” he asked in amazement. The cut wasn’t as deep as he had feared, but the sharp turn it took made the skin gape, and the movement of the jacket against it must have kept it from clotting over.

“No, nothing,” Winchester said. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the wound. “I swear - it must’ve happened when that guy bumped me at Benny’s, I thought he’d tried to pickpocket me but there was nothing missing, and then I came straight here. That’s really strange.”

“It happens sometimes. Cuts can be peculiar. I’ll have to disinfect it and put some stitches in to stop it from opening again, is that alright?”

“You’re the doctor, Doc. Whatever you think is best.”

Gabriel watched in disgusted fascination as Castiel cleaned and stitched the wound, bandaging it carefully when he was finished. His little snake disappeared under his cravat, poking its head out occasionally to taste the air and vanish again. “I’ll check how it’s healing in a few days. In the meantime, please keep it dry and clean, and if it starts to throb or you feel feverish come straight back here. Can you feel it yet?”

Winchester’s brow furrowed. “A little, maybe. The stitching was the damnedest thing, I could feel the skin move but it didn’t hurt at all.”

“I can think of a dozen things that will do that just off the top of my head,” Gabriel said dismissively, “although it is strange that someone would use one for a wound like this. Maybe they intended to harm you more so that you would be weakened or the arm would become infected.”

“At least I know I rattled the right cages yesterday then,” Winchester sighed. “Pity I don’t know which one exactly. Better head back to Benny’s to see if I can work out anything more about whoever did this.” He stood, rolling his shoulders to relieve some hidden tension there. His shirt strained across his muscles; Castiel almost managed to suppress his sigh, but one glance at his cousin told him that he had not been entirely successful there.

Winchester pulled on his ruined jacket and bloody overcoat with a grimace. “Thanks for your help, Doc, I really appreciate it. Mr Milton, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry if my injury caused you any distress.”

“Not at all, I always like a little excitement,” Gabriel replied with a sly smirk at Castiel. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Good luck with your end of the investigation.”

The Detective nodded at them both and swept out of the room with the air of a man on a mission. Castiel sat back down in his chair, very aware of the scents Winchester had left behind him, and equally aware of Gabriel’s grin.

“Oh yes, I definitely see why you’re quite so obsessed with this case, Cassie. It certainly is compelling.”

Castiel glared at his cousin, and threw a piece of cake at his head, but Gabriel caught it and laughed at him whilst he ate it.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Dean woke up the next day, his arm had begun to ache dully but persistently. Whatever had been used to make the wound numb seemed to have well and truly worn off, and his whole arm was stiff and uncoöperative until he arrived back at the station.

Sam had had some choice words for him last night when he returned home, mostly criticisms of Benny’s establishment and person, but Dean had dismissed those outright. Benny had recognised Dean’s attacker as “a mercenary little shit, thieving and butchery and the like”, and Dean rather thought that it was only the looming presence of Benny that had stopped him from being knifed outright.

On the way to work Dean was constantly looking out for suspicious people, doubling back and taking sudden diversions to make sure he wasn’t followed, and the sense of being on edge only increased during the course of the day. Charlie commented on it when she sat down to report on her findings.

“You’re looking awfully twitchy today, Dean. Did you get any bad news?” She was wearing women’s clothes today, which always made him a little confused. Not that she looked bad in them, just that he was so used to seeing her thumbing her nose at propriety that any hint of her conforming to expectations was disconcerting.

“Nothing good, anyway. Three more deaths and one ill coroner because he didn’t believe Doc Novak’s suggestions.” The notes the information had come in were bundled on his desk in neat piles, ready to be filed away for later.

“Maybe I can help with that. Got a lead at the docks for you. Someone’s been offering something around the hookers instead of money, says it’ll kill a mated pair in a week if they eat it. I don’t think anyone’s taken them up on it yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” Charlie spoke quietly, always wary of her colleagues overhearing her when talking about her less than kosher informants.

Dean perked up instantly. “This person have a description? Primary and secondary sex, at least?”

“Nothing stood out other than male, so I’m thinking Beta, local, too poor to go to a decent brothel. Pretty sure I can reel him in. That type are never particularly careful. And yes, I will take someone else along too, you don’t need to babysit me.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

Dean sighed. “I hate to put you in danger, Charles, but I could really use a good lead right about now. Watch yourself out there. Take someone good with you.”

“You too, Dean,” Charlie replied seriously. “You made yourself a big target on Monday. You gotta look out for yourself right now.”

Dean’s arm gave a twinge, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, about that…”

After the shouting stopped and Dean had slunk out to conduct yet more interviews with the family and servants of the new crop of victims - political ones, mostly, as far as Dean could tell, and nothing new or even particularly interesting to learn from them - he found himself returning to the station in the same trolley car as Victor. They sat next to each other and complained about their respective investigations.

“The Board, Lord above, they just don’t stop whining. They won’t pay for better security and want officer presence round the clock. The Zoo’s too large for that to be practical and we just don’t have the men,” Victor sighed. “If I could just find the buyer this would be over with but it’s a big city, and the fashion for foreign animals isn’t dying down at all.”

“The Captain’s pressuring me for results and all I have is theories and some clearly linked cases,” Dean commiserated. “If he’d just give me more people then I could really hunt down leads, but I feel like I’m only managing to tread water here. I need a big break. Charlie’s got a lead but the guy sounds like small fry to me.”

“At least you’ve got a lead. All I have is missing animals and a few unlucky bite victims. Don’t let this out, but I’m half sure there’s a mamba loose in Central Park. Hopefully it’ll freeze to death on its own.”

Dean started to pull and exaggerated face but paused, struck by a sudden thought. “These missing animals. They all poisonous?”

Victor frowned at him. “Most of them, yes. They’re usually kept in the same place but in separate enclosures.”

“Shit, Vic, this might be connected. One of the things the Doc’s trying to work out is if the illness is caused by disease or by-”

“Poison,” Victor filled in grimly. “Even if your illness is caused by disease, all it would take is the whisper of a poisonous animal causing this thing and half the gangs in the city would be robbing the zoo.” He cracked his knuckles, looking more energised than Dean had seen him in days. “Looks like I have a new line of investigation to look at. Thanks, Dean. I’ll keep you apprised of any developments.”

“No problem. I’ll take anything that’ll help me get to the bottom of this. There are too many people dying. I have to stop it.”

 

The next day dawned bright and clear, although Dean didn’t care to see it. His sleep had been interrupted with vague nightmares that he couldn’t recall on waking, and the wound on his arm ached when he used it. Sam finally looked well enough to leave the house though, and Dean made plans to arrive home promptly in order to take him to see Dr Novak.

The office was unbearable today, with too many loud voices and slammed doors. He spent the day building up evidence and trying to work out a timeline based on Victor’s case - the first theft at the zoo was four months ago, then a big gap until three weeks ago when the next four thefts, or attempted thefts, had begun.

The first death that Dean was confident was the mysterious illness was six weeks ago. But that was going off of both mates dying; if earlier attempts had been made which ended up like Sam and Ruby, then the murders could have been taking place for much longer. That was consistent with the first theft from the zoo: running out of available material and replacing it was an obvious motivation.

The second group of thefts, then, was just after the victims of the illness started to spread throughout the city and the deaths started to look unrelated to any single motivation. If that represented multiple murderers being given - or finding out about - the means to kill people in this way and then attempting to replicate it themselves, then it would go a long way to explaining Dean’s earlier confusion about the case.

As frustrating as this investigation had been, Dean finally felt like he was making some progress. Even when Charlie revealed that her attempt to find a lead last night had fallen flat, Dean still felt pretty good about everything. The thought of seeing Dr Novak later on made him even more cheerful; as difficult as it was to want the man from a distance, never touching more than a professional handshake, spending time with him always made Dean happy.

He returned home only slightly later than he had planned, and bundled Sam into a cab to take him to the hospital. It rattled through the streets and made him faintly nauseated, he much preferred being on horseback, but it was always worth it for his brother’s health.

“I could have walked, Dean,” Sam grumbled as he paid the driver. “I’m fine now.”

“You’re underweight and three days ago you still had a fever. We’re taking a cab back, too. No arguments.”

Sam huffed but didn’t argue further, which Dean took to mean that Sam was still weaker than he would like but was trying to hide it from Dean, as usual. They made their way into the lobby and waited patiently to be seen.

The young Omega male nurse with the unlikely name didn’t make them wait too long to be taken in, greeting them with a smile. Normally his smell was pleasant, but today it seemed a little sour; perhaps he had had a bad night. “Evening, Alfie. Here to see the Doc. This is my brother Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said politely as Alfie’s quick eyes assessed the pair of them, finding something there that made his forehead crinkle slightly. Sam did look terrible, though, there was no denying that.

“You too, Mr Winchester, although I’m sorry it isn’t under better circumstances,” he replied politely. “If you’ll follow me? Dr Novak has Miss Moore with him - she’s a nurse, but she’s nearly a doctor, and it’s for training,” he explained. Or, well, Dean understood it. Sam just looked confused.

They were shown to the private room that was kept for Dr Novak’s walk-in patients, a connecting door to his study on one side. Dean settled himself in a chair and gestured Sam to the low bed. “He’ll want you to lie down at some point, might as well sit there too, Sammy,” he said absently.

His attention was mainly on the smell of the hospital. It settled his stomach and soothed his wariness, releasing tension that he hadn’t know he was carrying. Damn but he had it bad. Sam gave him a few suspicious looks but straightened as Dr Novak and Miss Moore entered, rising to greet them.

“Dr Novak, it’s good to see you again. I hope I’ll be more useful this time,” he said with a duck of his head and a faint blush.

“Mr Winchester,” Novak said gravely. “This is my colleague, Miss Moore. She’ll be asking the questions today, and I will be assisting.”

Miss Moore seemed unconcerned to be in a room with two Alpha men; they had to be stinking up the place, Dean knew, but she was polite about it at least. “Mr Winchester. Perhaps we could begin with a description of your symptoms. Start with the most recent period of illness, please.”

“Uh, sure thing. I started feeling really tired on the Sunday night, and the next day I had no appetite or energy. Day after I had a fever which lasted for four or five days before it went. Couldn’t stay awake for more than a couple hours at a time, but bad dreams kept waking me. Since then my energy and appetite have both increased and today I felt well enough to leave the house again. The dreams have stopped.”

“How would you describe your mood during all of this?”

“Low. Really low, usually. It always makes me miss Ruby - my wife - terribly. I get… very lonely, and the grief is always very sharp. Dean helps, though,” Sam added with a small smile at Dean. “He always makes me feel calmer.”

Beside him, Dr Novak’s pen sharply underlined the last note and scribbled several more illegible comments at a shared meaningful look from Miss Moore, although there was no sign of her interest in her calm voice. “What about the few days before the attack? How would you say your mood was then?”

“Uh… Normal, I guess. Only I started thinking of Ruby more in the couple of days before the fatigue set in,” he said slowly. “And missing her more.”

“I know this is difficult, Mr Winchester, but this really is helpful information,” Miss Moore said. “Can you describe your symptoms the first time you had one of these episodes?”

Dean didn’t need to hear the description; he remembered too well the shaking, the fever that spiked so high the doctor thought his heart would give out under the strain of it, the delirium, the constant crying out for Ruby. He still had some scars where Sam had attacked him for keeping him from his dead wife, although he had never told Sam about them. He shivered a little and drew himself inward against the memory of that dark time.

Miss Moore turned to him once her questioning of Sam had hit the memory loss caused by the long delirium, but Dr Novak gave a minute shake of his head and she turned back to question Sam about his recovery from that first bout, such as it was. The Doctor stood abruptly and retired briefly to the next room, coming back with a tray of tea and biscuits all round, but he pressed them on Dean first.

Dean nibbled on a ginger biscuit with no real appetite and sipped his tea dutifully, although he was never much of a fan of it. They at least made him feel slightly brighter, even if he still felt raw on the inside. He didn’t have time to be coming down with another cold; he would just have to power through this as best as he could until the case was over, when he would have time to be able to be ill without running the risk of more people dying.

Finally, Sam gave enough information about his own condition to satisfy Miss Moore. She took a fortifying mouthful of her own tea and moved her line of questioning onto more painful matters. “Can you describe your wife’s illness to me? In as much detail as you can provide, please.”

Sam’s lips tightened but he nodded in understanding. “She started getting sick about a year ago. Headaches, low fever, a persistent cough. We thought she just had a seasonal thing, there was a nasty grippe going round the University at the time, but after a few weeks she started coughing blood. Not much, but enough to worry us. The family doctor said it might be tuberculosis, but he didn’t seem sure at first, he couldn’t hear anything in her lungs I think?”

Both the Doctor and the soon-to-be Doctor nodded at that and Sam continued with a frown,  “She kept on like that for another couple of weeks before she started getting much worse. Blood when she, uh, passed water, not able to stand, much more coughing. Her back and stomach were sore all the time. Her flesh melted from her until she was just skin and bone. The last week… she had nightmares all the time, couldn’t stand to be alone, was barely coherent when she was awake. The doctor said it was galloping consumption, and that there was nothing to be done, and no way to have known in advance. But I didn’t… I didn’t care by then. Watching her die like that - I hated it, but I hated being apart from her even more. I didn’t want her to look for me and not find me, especially at the end.”

Sam was still badly affected by the memory even now, it was clear to see. “Her parents had never liked me, they had wanted a nice Omega man for their precious Alpha daughter, and they made it clear that I was no longer welcome in their house after she died, for all they’d said it was ours when we got married. So I went to Dean, and then I got really ill myself, and you know the rest.”

Dean was fighting tears himself now, and the room was full of the scent of deep loss and grief. They all busied themselves with their tea by mutual unspoken agreement, and pretended not to notice each others’ reddened eyes once they had all regained control. That was always the thing about Alpha emotions; they spilled over everyone else, too, making even the clinically detached affected by one sad story of personal tragedy.

Dr Novak caught Dean’s eye as Miss Moore requested that Sam unbutton his shirt enough for an examination of his mating glands. Dean nodded slightly back, his jaw working against the growing anger he felt at himself. Whilst the timing was off, the illnesses both seemed very similar to those suffered by their murder victims, and missing the signs for so long made him feel even less competent than usual.

He tried to rein his anger in whilst the examination was underway, breathing deeply to dispel the sensation and its accompanying telltale scent. Sam’s face was scarlet as Miss Moore cleaned and manipulated the skin above both glands, but she was nothing but professional as she carefully manipulated the areas. First the unscarred gland, then the mating bite.

The first elicited nothing from Sam, but the second was obviously still tender; Sam winced a few times and drew a sharp breath in once, but otherwise kept still. Miss Moore turned towards Dr Novak when she was complete, her face grave. “I agree, yes. The cysts are palpable. Much smaller, but definitely present.”

Dean released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and let his head fall back, dizzy from the lack of air. He blinked back new tears as Sam started the first of what would no doubt be a series of questions. “So I have this same thing as Dean’s murder victims?”

“It would seem so,” Miss Moore replied. “The good news, though, is that the form you have seems less aggressive and in fact appears to be getting better over time, which suggests you will recover from this eventually.”

“Why would it be different though?” Sam wondered. “Is it just because Ruby took longer to - to succumb to it?”

“That is very much the question,” Dr Novak murmured, a low rumble that Dean thrilled to hear even through his tight control over himself. “We only have theories right now, rather than absolute answers. We also have a theorised treatment, although it might not work and could make things much worse for you.”

Dean started upright again. “What? This is new.”

Dr Novak looked either wary or guilty, or more probably both. “One of my colleagues at the University Hospital performed a glandectomy on the affected gland on three of his patients. One died on the table, but he suspects that one of the cysts was burst in the removal, and it killed the patient very quickly. The second died of shock. The third survived the operation, but was very weak by that point, and only lived another two days.”

Dean took a deep and indignant breath, but Novak held a hand out to forestall his outburst. “The third patient was an elderly woman who had already been ill, whereas the second was a young man. We don’t know the exact mechanism behind these glands, but we do know that enough damage to them can outright kill someone newly mated. I suspect that is what happened, and it is not the solution I am proposing. If we excise the cysts, rather than the gland as a whole, it should be far less taxing on the body.”

“Yeah, if those things don’t just burst right open, Doc! I was there for the first autopsy! I know how easily they go off!” Dean kept his voice low so as not to upset Sam too much, but it came out more as an angry hiss than a sotto voce aside.

“Detective. I would not suggest this at all were I not sure that we could do it. We have honed our skills since then. I understand your concern, and I admit that even a successful operation might not cure the symptoms plaguing Sam, but we do believe that these cysts are the source of what plagues the secondary victims, and this is the only thing that might work.” The Doctor had turned fully to face Dean now, pinning him with his gaze. “Sam is strong, and healthy - not as much as he might be, I know, but compared to our other patients he is much more robust. He is far more likely to survive this than every other patient known to us right now. Please trust me when I say that I only have your brother’s best interests at heart.”

“Of course I trust you, Doc,” Dean whispered helplessly. “I just.. It’s just that…” He couldn’t find the words to explain the turmoil in his head and heart right now, might never be able to express it even to himself.

“I know,” Novak murmured, his voice a soothing caress. “You don’t need to explain it to me.” He gave Dean a small smile. “We’ve both experienced something of what Sam has been going through with such regularity these past months. Can you honestly say that you wouldn’t leap at the chance of alleviation of your symptoms, were you in his shoes?”

Dean didn’t have to imagine it; his stomach swooped and his skin crawled at the suggestion, and he was briefly mired once more in the intense despair and self-hatred of two weeks ago. “No, I guess I wouldn’t,” he agreed softly. He looked over to where Sam was having his own quiet conversation with Miss Moore, looking more hopeful than Dean had seen him in over a year. “I guess I’d want to take the risk, no matter the cost.”

“We’ll give him time to think it over. Let me check your arm again before you go, to make sure it’s healing properly.”

Dean sat lost in thought whilst Dr Novak cleaned his wound, and when Sam was finally done with his questions and they were home, he stayed silent as Sam talked through the risks until he took to bed early, heartsick for a future without his brother.

 

The next day found him unwell enough not to want to walk into the precinct, and he took a trolley car instead; his fellow passengers mostly kept their distance from his pallid face and brief bouts of coughing that did nothing to soothe the tickles in his chest. By the time he arrived at work his was irritable from fever and trying to disguise it.

If there was one thing to be said for working in a badly-lit office, though, it was that no-one could tell he was nursing a cold. Dean kept himself wrapped warm and jiggled his leg against the bouts of restlessness that took over. A note in Crowley’s distinctive scrawl told him that he had been assigned beat police to take over the evidence collection, and that police had also been assigned to guarding the hospitals which were known to have patients; a minor riot outside one last night had made the need for police support clear.

It ended with Crowley’s usual combination of carrot and stick all at once, and a plea for Dean to work as fast as possible. Although what the man thought Dean could be doing any more than he already was, he had no idea.

Putting Sam’s experiences into his timeline didn’t magically make everything start coming together, unfortunately, although it did make it clear that the instigator of this plague was clearly someone who hated any so-called non-traditional mated pairs. Whoever they were, they had deliberately targeted Alpha/Alpha pairings, Alpha/Beta pairings in all gender combinations, and even one male Omega/Omega pairing.

Dean had read enough, and seen enough, to know that all possible pairings were “traditional” in that they were found across cultures and histories. Many pairings were disliked by the Church, although it would bless any that could produce children in theory; some pairings were currently unfashionable, but had not been two hundred or more years ago, and that would no doubt change over time. His own early life had been blighted by prejudice against Alpha/Alpha pairings, even though he had come along barely over a year after his parents had mated.

With so much hatred against couples like Ruby and Sam, and his parents, the only wonder was that some multi-murderer1 hadn’t already tried this level of wholescale murder. But in this case, the murderer had made one big miscalculation: they had given other people access to their weapon of choice, and those others had been profligate in their use of it.

Well, Dean would find them all, eventually. He would see them all punished for their crimes, and hopefully he would see their victims survive too. The Camorra looked like the weak link here; they were the most careless of the murderers, leaving the biggest trail behind them. If he kept pulling on that, managed to tie something to one of Romano’s lieutenants, then Romano himself would eventually turn on his supplier. He had done so in the past.

Charlie’s breathless news came as an unwelcome surprise accordingly. “Dick Romano’s got your plague!” she announced, pulling a chair to his desk and collapsing on it dramatically. “Some kind of super-fast version of it, by all accounts. Word on the street is that he’ll be dead by tomorrow. The Italian gangs are all in an uproar, looks like some Sicilian lot2 might try to move in.”

“Well, shit,” Dean cursed. “There goes my best fucking lead.”

“Don’t get your tail down! This could be great for you! There’ll be some people in there who hated this whole thing, and with Romano out of the way they’re far more likely to talk.” She looked around and moved closer to Dean. “I’m working on that myself, and so is Victor. We’ll get them between us, don’t worry.”

The thought should have been reassuring but Dean shivered at the faint sense of dread that he felt. “I didn’t peg Romano as the instigator, but it’s reassuring to know that they’re feeling the pressure, at least,” he sighed. “I’ll ask around myself. Someone must know something, even if Romano’s people keep their damned omertà3.”

“I have more. One of my girls has the hopeful john from a few nights ago on her hook. She’s stringing him along until she gets a sample of the poison from you.” Charlie’s evil grin was a thing of beauty. “I’ll get him talking, and get viable samples for your pretty doctor. I’ll take any of those straight there though, if you don’t mind. Wearing gloves. And a scarf. And not touching anyone.”

“You’re the best, Charlie.” Dean gave her a grin of his own, although he feared it was not up to his usual standards. “I owe you for this.”

She waved it off, as usual. “You’ve saved my skin more times than once, but I’d do this for free regardless. Whoever’s doing this… I’m a potential target, too. This needs to end.” She wasn’t wrong; Dean was ashamed that it had not occurred to him to be afraid for her before now. What was wrong with him, to have missed such an obvious connection?

He reached out and grasped her hands firmly. “We will find whoever has done this, and stop them. And Dr Novak will find a cure. He’s very close to effective treatments, now.”

“I believe it, Dean. I just wish we had both right now.” Charlie gave him another smile, this one more tremulous than the last, and returned to her own work.

The rest of the day passed in fits and starts as Dean’s fever waxed and waned. It wasn’t a bad one, he judged, just enough to make it hard to concentrate at times. His cough got no better, and he did his best to soothe it with lozenges.

He felt wretched enough, in fact, to find one of his runners and send the boy off to Sam with a message to meet him at Greenwich Grace and to take a cab to get there. He knew Sam would ignore the latter part, but hopefully he would at least take the trolley car to get there rather than walking. It was what Dean himself would be doing once his work was completed.

The tasks seemed to last forever; he still had court cases on-going, even if his other investigations had been moved. His hand-writing became noticeably worse as the day wore on, or at least Dean himself noticed that it did; he was always sensitive about his hard-won cursive, and it made him see faults where others would not.

Finally finished, he trudged to the trolley car and held onto a rail for dear life as it bumped and jostled him to the hospital. The nausea of yesterday came back in full force, and by the time he arrived he was sweating and in desperate need of fresh air. He sat on the step until Sam arrived, trying to get his body back under his control. It took… far too long. He would have to speak to Doc Novak about this. He needed to be able to finish this investigation.

Sam gave him a worried look when he arrived, from the trolley car of course. “Are you unwell, Dean? You look like shit,” he said bluntly.

Dean waved it off. “Just a minor ague, or some such. I’ll be fine.” He followed Sam into the hospital and took another lozenge for the tickle in his chest. Back in Dr Novak’s patient room, arms folded tight across his chest, he watched Sam agree to the operation with the grim sense that Sam would die and there was nothing he could do about it.

The thought of life without him was almost too difficult to bear, although he could imagine it quite clearly - had done so at some length, in the first throes of Sam’s illness. Dean would be bereft of nearly all meaningful company, adrift in the world with nothing to tie him in place. He would become one of those sad, desperately lonely Alphas who haunted the drinking holes of the city, never able to find true companionship again.

His head swam and he heaved a deep breath, triggering off a long fight to choke down his coughing. Sam turned to look at him with a worried frown.

“Is there anything you can do for Dean while we’re here, Dr Novak? Miss Moore? He’s been poorly the past few days and I’m pretty sure he’s getting worse, whatever he says.”

Dean sneered at Sam, who gave his most unimpressed face back in turn. Dr Novak rolled his eyes at both of them and turned up the lamps beside Dean before taking his pulse and frowning at him. “You were ill yesterday and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s just a cold, Doc, I just need something to get me through it,” Dean protested. “I don’t feel great, but I’m not properly ill.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you,” Novak replied smartly. “Take your coat off, please, and loosen your collar.” Dean did as he was told, not daring to give any more cheek. The Doctor pressed his stethophone to Dean’s chest with a frown, felt under his ears and looked inside his mouth, and looked again at the wound on Dean’s arm, which seemed to be healing nicely.

The Doctor sat back with an unsettled frown. “When exactly would you say this illness started?”

“Two, three days maybe?” Dean replied cautiously, clearing his throat. The tickle in his chest was becoming more urgent.

“Mmm. Any difficulty sleeping? Sudden emotional shifts?”

“No. Well, maybe. Not really. Nothing more than I’d expect from a low fever.”

“Headaches? Nausea or depressed appetite? Coughing fits?”

“No to the first,” Dean began, a terrible suspicion beginning to dawn on him. “Yes to the second, a little.”

“A lot, Dean, you barely ate a thing yesterday,” Sam objected. He still looked annoyed rather than worried; behind Dr Novak, though, Miss Moore had gone very still.

“Detective. Any coughing? With or without blood.” Dr Novak’s voice had turned grave and low, the tone he used for his sickest patients, Dean noted. He felt giddy, although with fear or vertigo he couldn’t tell.

“Some dry coughing. No long bouts. I’ve been, uh, I have these honey lozenges somewhere, they’ve been helping. So it’s just a cold, right? They wouldn’t work if it wasn’t.” Years of practice kept Dean’s voice steady, but it was a close thing.

The Doctor looked steadily at him, but there was a glimmer of fear in his eyes. “I’m afraid that it doesn’t work like that, although I’m glad they’re soothing,” he said. “Has your neck been sore at all around the glands?”

“No,” Dean said, considerably relieved. “No aching or - or anything, Doc, I can roll my neck fine and everything, see?” He demonstrated, paying really close attention to his own feelings but no, there was nothing there. He was fine. It was just a cold, or some late winter fever, that was all.

“I’d rather keep you in overnight to be sure,” Novak began, but Dean waved him off.

“We know what to look for, don’t worry, I’ll come back if there’s any changes or - or symptoms that we know of, I swear. No nightmares, no weird glands, just a bit of a fever and a tickle in my throat.” Dean smiled his most charming smile, the one that made old ladies feed him and young women bite their lips, and Dr Novak smiled back at him shyly.

“Very well, Detective. Please - please give me daily reports on the progress of this fever, then. Rest as much as you are able to, and be sure to drink plenty of fluids. I’ll see you and Mr Winchester to a cab. A cab, Detective, I insist,” he said firmly when Dean began grumbling.

Miss Moore gave him a tremulous smile as they left, still seemingly worried for his health. And it - it wasn’t that Dean was completely sure there hadn’t been any unmated victims of this illness, but he was sure he didn’t have it. Almost completely sure. He would definitely keep an eye on himself, that was certain. As would Sam, apparently, who had worked out all of the implications and was shooting Dean little worried glances every few moments, now.

Novak fussed over Dean in the vestibule, ensuring that he was properly wrapped up against the chill, and promising Sam another pot of gruel for ease of feeding Dean, which Dean cheerfully grumbled about to relieve the lingering tension in the room. Once they were finally all dressed to Dr Novak’s exacting specifications, he led them outside to hail them a cab himself, as if he was suspicious that they might not follow his orders.

Dean might not have, had he been alone, but Sam would have made sure of it. And Dean was glad at the thought of a cab straight to his door; he was very fatigued by this fever, and the cold air chilled his lungs.

And irritated them. He suppressed the cough as long as he could, but it was tenacious and broke through his defences. “It’s just the air, Sammy, I’m fine,” he choked out as he gave into the desire and pulled out a handkerchief. The spasm passed quickly enough. “See? I’m fine now.”

But Dr Novak’s gaze was horrified and Sam looked distraught, and there was blood on Dean’s kerchief and at his lips, and he was going to die.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of animal testing, with some angsting about it.

The first full day of Detective Winchester’s hospital stay proved him to be a very bad patient. He consented to stay in bed, just about, but he argued strongly for his notes to be sent for, and eventually Castiel gave in.

“But you must rest whenever you feel tired, Detective. The more you exert yourself the more strain you put on your body,” Castiel argued earnestly. “We’re close to a cure, I know it, but if you push yourself too hard now - I would be very annoyed with you were you to die before I find it.” He was sitting at the Detective’s bedside in the private patient room attached to his office. He had thought it best, for reasons he did not care to speculate on.

Winchester nodded, his good humour draining from his face. “I’m sure I’ll be annoyed with myself too,” he said wryly, but it was a thin thing, and his hands trembled a little where they lay on the coverlet. “And please, Doc, if now isn’t the time to call me Dean I don’t know when is.” He managed a half-smile, and Castiel summoned one in return.

“Then you must call me Castiel. But not in front of the other patients. I don’t want them thinking they can take liberties.”

“I need to send to the precinct for personal reasons as well,” the Detective - Dean - continued in a low voice. “I have friends there. Colleagues. They need to know everything I’ve found out, in case - well, you know why. I have letters here for them.”

Three of them lay on the cabinet beside his bed; another, half-written, lay discarded on the bed-table across his lap. Castiel nodded. “Of course. I can… I have a lawyer on retainer, if you wish me to send for him,” he said delicately.

“No need,” Dean sighed. “I’m a detective in one of the biggest cities in the world. My will is up-to-date.”

Castiel swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat and looked at his lap. “If there’s anything else you need, I will do everything in my power to keep you comfortable,” he vowed. “I’m - I’m so sorry, Det - Dean. I should have known this was a possibility and, and cleaned the wound out more, or admitted you immediately, or-”

“No, no,” Dean interrupted him. “It never occurred to me either. I was so focussed on seeing this as something that killed couples that I never thought it would still be an effective way to kill a busybody like me.” He looked thoughtful. “I knew I rattled some cages last week. I wonder if - I mean, this narrows some suspects down, at least.”

Castiel choked out a laugh. “Only you could use your own attempted murder to advance the case,” he said fondly. He paused, struck by a sudden thought. “We still don’t truly understand how the illness is transmitted between mates,” he said slowly. “Is there anyone who we should keep watch on for symptoms?”

A shutter came down over Dean’s face. “No, no-one. Only person I’ve been interested in in years has made it pretty clear my feelings aren’t reciprocated.” He frowned at his hands for a moment, and when he looked back up a brittle smile was in place. “Some of us are just meant for bachelorhood, I guess.”

“I’m sorry to have had to ask,” Castiel murmured apologetically. “I should warn you, many of my questions of the coming few days will be equally indelicate, if differently focussed.” Dean snorted a faint laugh at that, which Castiel took as a victory. “You must keep me informed of your mood, as well, which I know you prefer not to talk about. But given the symptoms of this illness…”

Dean grimaced, but nodded. “I’ll try to overcome my natural modesty, then.” He winked, and Castiel smiled back, praying he did not blush.

“I’ll have the letters delivered immediately, then,” he said. “Is there anything else you need? You have your bell, and someone will be round soon with luncheon, which I will take as a personal kindness if you eat all of.”

“No, I’m well set up here, thank you,” Dean replied, gesturing to the extra blankets, writing materials, and newspapers gathered around him. “I’ll behave. As much as I can, anyway.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and left for the autopsy room. The smile he had given Dean as farewell fell off his face within two steps. He still could hardly believe this was happening , that this vital man was slowly succumbing to the terrible illness they had both been fighting for these past two weeks. He could barely imagine life without the brash humour and dependable strength of the Detective. What his brother must be feeling was barely comprehensible.

The younger Winchester was due to come in that evening for his surgery. Castiel rarely had to perform much more than an appendectomy or the occasional caesarian on the living, most of whom went to one of the larger hospitals for their surgical needs, but he had performed several autopsies for Dean over the years of their acquaintance and between himself and Miss Moore he was confident that they would succeed.

It would be a real step forward if they could prove that it helped those with secondary infections. There was a young woman in his care whose husband, already ailing with recurring malaria, had succumbed swiftly to his illness; Castiel thought that if the operation on Sam was a success, and if it seemed to help at all, he would approach Mrs Stark to see if she would consent to be their second trial.

That was a task for tomorrow. This afternoon he was conducting more experiments on the substance contained within the cysts in both primary and secondary infections, to try to determine if they were identical or, as he suspected, merely closely related. The barrier to that was the tiny quantity involved, but he had devised a series of experiments involving exposing captive rats to them both in order to see if their reactions were similar. His work with a microscope had only taken him so far before he had hit the limits of the equipment available to him; he was now forced to try more esoteric routes.

Most of his peers conducted live experiments on the many stray cats and dogs in the City, but Castiel hated to see them suffering. The limited space in the hospital was a secondary consideration. Rats were an acceptable compromise. They mated in similar ways to humans; they were small and easy to house; and he had never had one as a pet.

Even so, he felt very guilty about their sacrifice. He said a prayer over each small life lost, and did what he could to treat them. It added time to his experiments that he might not have, but it eased his soul, so he gave it gladly.

Three rats had given their lives to the cause by the time the hastily-built bell rang to indicate that his presence was required upstairs. He grumbled to himself - he had just been about to expose a fourth - but returned the rat to its box and carried it back to its fellows at the top of the stairs, removing the diving helmet as he went.

Hannah was waiting for him at the sink, where he set to scrubbing his hands clean. “Begging your pardon, Dr Novak, but the Detective apparently has people who care about him enough to see him. Should I let them in?” The disdain in her voice was clear, and Castiel finally lost his temper.

“Regardless of your feelings about Alpha men, Hannah, the man is dying of an illness he is trying to prevent, at the hands of a murderer he is trying to stop. Please keep your snobbery to yourself for the duration of his stay, however long that might prove to be. I will not have you making what could well be his last days on Earth miserable with your constant disgust over something he can no more help than I or you can our own sexes,” he growled. “I will let them in myself, seeing as you seem to be incapable of treating him with any dignity.”

He stalked away before he could say anything worse. Mrs Tran, peeking out of the children and infants room, watched him go past with wide eyes before returning to her charges for the day. He paused outside Dean’s room to calm himself down enough to enter and make sure Dean was fit for visitors, and was given a cheery wave and a smile for his efforts. Dean agreed to the visitors with alacrity, and Castiel strode off to the vestibule.

One of the two people in the room was seated patiently whilst the other paced nervously. They both wore police garb, tailored to suit their rank, and had already removed their overcoats - Castiel kept a warm entryway to protect his vulnerable patients from cold draughts. “I’m so sorry to keep you, I was unavoidably detained,” he began. “I’m Dr Novak. If you’ll follow me, I’ll lead you to Detective Winchester’s room. Unless you have any questions before you see him?”

The pacing figure looked at him with red-rimmed eyes, revealing herself to be a slender woman of average height. His nose told him she was an Alpha; his heart told him she was desperately afraid for her colleague and friend. “I’m Charlie Bradbury, Detective Bradbury sorry, and this is Detective Henriksen,” gesturing to the attractive Omega man rising to his feet. “How is Dean? Is he - is it bad? How long does he have left? Can you cure him?”

Her rapid-fire questions made Castiel cock his head at her. He supposed, if they were taking over the investigation in Dean’s… absence, this information would prove pertinent to the case. “I can’t speak to how he’s feeling but I have no specific concerns about his symptoms, other than the obvious,” he said carefully. “He is lucid and happy to see you. He wants to work for as long as he can, and probably longer than I will let him,” he added wryly. Detective Henriksen bit his lip to hide the smile lurking in his eyes; Detective Bradbury, however, looked even more distraught. “By the time I see patients they are usually worse than Dean, excuse me, than Detective Winchester is, so he has at least another week, most of which he will be lucid for.”

He took a moment to clear his throat against a sudden tightness at his stark predictions. “If a cure can be found, its efficacy will rest on how strong he is when he gets it, and how damaged his organs are. The same will be true for all of the victims. I’m afraid that, even when we find one, many people will still die.”

Detective Henriksen had sobered. “Is there anything we can do to help your progress towards a cure?”

“Well, if you found the mastermind behind it all, we would at least know what we were dealing with,” Castiel sighed. “I’m personally convinced that this is a toxin, rather than a disease, but some of my colleagues are not. Any samples of whatever is being used to administer the illness, regardless of its origin, would be very useful.”

The pair looked at each other and nodded. “That we can do. I can also give you a list of the creatures stolen from the Zoo recently; Dean and I believe that the thefts are connected to the deaths.” Henriksen seemed a little taken aback at the immediate interest that Castiel made no effort to hide, and agreed to send a copy of the list over straight away.

Castiel led them through the hospital to the private room, ensuring that they washed their hands thoroughly before entering - there was no risk of infection on their part, but there was a danger of them contaminating Dean himself with some other illness, which would weaken him even further.

He left the Detectives alone for their talk, but retreated no further than his study next door, catching up with various pieces of correspondence and penning a note to Gabriel to ask him to visit when he could, as he hoped to have something useful to share with him by the morrow. He was disturbed by a knock at the connecting door.

It was Detective Bradbury. “If you wouldn’t mind coming through, Dean thinks it would be a good idea to talk about the investigation between us before we go.” Her eyes were nearly as red as her hair; either she had been weeping, or had come very close to it.

“I’ll be through momentarily. I’ll fetch coffee.” He should have done so earlier, Castiel realised, but he was terrible at playing host.

Mrs Tran was in the kitchen starting the dinner preparations. “You shouldn’t have shouted at Hannah earlier,” she said quietly. “She cried for fifteen minutes before she calmed down.”

Castiel flinched guiltily. “I’ll apologise to her for that. But not for the sentiment behind it. I know full well what society says about the Detective, but our job here is to heal the sick, not judge them for their genitalia.” He busied himself making up a tray of small cakes and biscuits, and a tisane for Dean.

Mrs Tran muttered something in Annamese1 that he nevertheless understood to be uncomplimentary about himself. “Her family was hurt by Alpha men once. Which you would know if you talked to her properly instead of keeping yourself apart,” she said pointedly. He felt himself flushing at her accusation, but it was a true one. “Do not tell her I told you this. But she has reasons not to trust him. Maybe not good reasons, but it’s hard to break old habits.”

“I see,” Castiel managed. “I’ll speak to her about this once the Detectives leave. They’re… well.” He busied himself with the kettle to hide his face. “They’re preparing for Detective Winchester’s death, I think.”

The clattering of dishes behind him stopped for a moment. “He will survive. A man like that is too annoying to die.” But she put a small vase filled with spring violets on the tray, and patted him on the arm as he took his tray back to Dean’s room.

Everyone brightened when they saw the refreshments, although Dean’s face fell when Castiel refused him coffee. After the inevitable pouting, he encouraged Castiel to begin the conversation with his current theories and experiments, including the one later that day on Samuel Winchester.

Castiel summarised his work obediently. “I have access to the substance that the body produces once it is infected, and am attempting to determine if they are identical in both primary and secondary patients,” he finished. “If the cause does prove to be a toxin, I’m hopeful that there is an antidote that may be uncovered, or at least a treatment. If it is a disease of some kind I am afraid the prognosis is far grimmer. Nothing I have tried so far has done anything more than extend life by two or three days. Once the fever grows high enough, the body cannot cope.”

Dean’s pale face and spots of bright colour suddenly appeared much more sinister to the two detectives, for they both turned equally worried glances on him. Detective Bradbury even took his hand and gripped it tight. Perhaps she was the one who held his heart? “I’m not going anywhere right now, Charles,” Dean said gently. “I got a while yet before I get that bad.”

His reassurances were tempered slightly by a coughing fit in the silence that followed, bringing bright blood to his lips. He set his jaw and rinsed his mouth out as discreetly as possible before continuing, “Why don’t you two tell the Doc where your investigations are at?”

Detective Henriksen began. “As I said earlier, I’m looking into the zoo thefts. The first one was four months ago, and there have been a series of others since then. Most of the animals were exotic, many of them were poisonous or venomous, and the last one was definitely perpetrated by one of the criminal gangs. I’ve been trying to find out if there have been any similar thefts of exotic plants, or unusual sales. I’ve also been putting pressure on the gangs. Someone always talks, eventually.”

Detective Bradbury cleared her throat. “My own part in this was originally a lead from the docks, with the… night workers there.” She raised an eyebrow at Castiel; he blushed as he caught her meaning. “Someone was talking about a poison he had that could kill a couple. I’ve traced him to a small gang that does work for one of the Camorra clans, all I have to do is wait for them all to be there and swoop in with some uniforms. Hopefully I’ll be able to get you your samples and find new leads to go higher up the chain.” She rubbed her hands together in glee. “Crowley’s given me access to the Romano case, too. His death caused a lot of upset for the Italians. Like Victor said, someone will start talking soon.”

“I hope so,” Castiel sighed. His eyes fell on Dean’s pale hand, clutching a bloody handkerchief. “I truly hope so.”

 

Dean lay in bed, trying to breathe carefully so as not to disturb the pain in his head. It was not at the point where he wanted to disturb the nurses, and Dr Novak was still operating on Sam. Even the thought of it made his head hurt worse.

He had driven himself half to distraction and was beginning to form wordless prayers when the Doctor finally came into the sick-room. The light from the lamp he carried hurt Dean’s eyes, and he couldn’t suppress a wince even as he struggled upright. “How’s Sam?” he said, voice rusty with disuse and too much coughing earlier.

“Recovering. The operation was a success. He’s nauseated from the ether and his neck aches, he says, but otherwise he’s fine. Lie back down, Dean, you look exhausted.” Castiel came closer, dimming the lamp at Dean’s flinch. Cool fingers took his pulse and brushed over his warm forehead.

“Thank God,” Dean breathed. “And you. Thank you.” He lay back down limply. Relief made him giddy, but at least eased his headache slightly.

Castiel inclined his head. “You’re welcome. I’ll let him visit tomorrow, as long as he’s recovered his strength. Better that you both get a good night’s sleep.” He sat down next to Dean and wrote something brief in the patient notebook before looking at Dean closely. “You’re in pain. What’s wrong?”

“Headache,” Dean admitted. “Didn’t want to disturb Alfie with the operation going on, there are other patients.”

“I have a powder that should help with that and bring your fever down a little. I use a distillation of peppermint on my own headaches that might provide some immediate relief, if you want to try it?”

“Whatever you think is best,” Dean said agreeably. “You’re the Doc, Cas.”

Castiel harrumphed as he found and prepared the treatments. “So, not satisfied with shortening my professional title, you shorten my name as well?”

“I can call you Cassie if you prefer,” Dean offered with a small smile, too tired to make much of a joke of it but too much of a creature of habit not to do it at all. Besides, soon he wouldn’t be able to joke at all. Might as well use his good humour whilst he could still feel it.

“Good Lord no,” Castiel said fervently. “An old family nickname, which I cannot shed now. It’s dreadful. Cas is… acceptable, if you must.”

“I do it to everyone,” Dean admitted. “Dunno why, really. I just do.”

“We all have our quirks and habits. Drink this up. The taste is foul, but it’s effective.” Castiel handed Dean a small glass, and he drank obediently. “And a sip of this to freshen your mouth.” Water flavoured with mint, Dean thought. “Now settle back and close your eyes.”

When he was arranged comfortably, Castiel placed a damp towel that smelled strongly of peppermint over Dean’s forehead, and it quickly began to soothe his aching head. “This feels really good,” Dean murmured. He could feel his body beginning to drift down into sleep. “Thanks, Cas. You’re really good at this doctorin’ business.”

“Go to sleep, Dean.” The amusement and concern were plain in Castiel’s low voice. “I’ll be next door if you need me during the night.”

Dean fell asleep listening to the gentle noises of Castiel working quietly at his desk, and that fact kept his dreams calm and quiet all night.

 

Sam Winchester was a much better patient than his brother, probably because of his long experience of being one, but he still chafed to be in bed. “I feel fine, Doctor. Well, as fine as I can. It’s hard not using my right arm for anything.” He frowned at the sling that Castiel had deemed necessary to avoid any stretching or pulling at the new wound. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself at home, though.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. “You are as bad as your brother. I want to keep a close eye on you for the next few days, and - not to put too fine a point on it - Dean will be grateful for your company.”

Sam stilled instantly, turning grave and stern. “It still doesn’t seem real,” he admitted. “I can’t believe he’s - ill.” He had censored himself there, refusing to use the more correct dying. “I always knew there was a risk, with him in the police, but I thought it would be injury, and Dean’s clever, he knows how to fight, he’s healthy and strong, I thought he would survive nearly anything. I never imagined this.”

His eyes were haunted and terrible to look into, set in his still too thin and pale face. “I won’t stop fighting for him,” Castiel said steadily. “I can’t - I won’t - promise you that he’ll live. That’s dependent on far too many things beyond my control. But I can and will promise that I will do everything I can for him, and for the other victims of the monster who did this.”

“Thank you,” Sam whispered. “I knew he thought highly of you. I understand why, now.”

Castiel’s face heated. “I’m only doing what everyone with my skills and vocation would do,” he said, uncomfortable with the compliments.

“But most of them aren’t,” Sam argued back. “Half the doctors in the city won’t even treat the victims of this illness, let alone work towards finding a cure. You’re one of a dedicated few. And you’re the only doctor I’ve seen who ever listened to me properly, who didn’t dismiss me outright. You have no idea how much you’ve helped me, even if this operation turns out not to have worked. I have hope, now. I haven’t had that for months. And I have hope for Dean, too, because of you. Even if - even if the worst does happen, I’ll always be grateful to you.”

Castiel had to look away from the sincerity evident in Sam’s face, moved more than he could say. “Thank you,” he managed eventually. “I’m glad to know that I’ve been able to help you.” Sam Winchester might end up being the only one of his patients who lived through this illness, but it was heartening to know that there would be at least one, so long as he remained well and contracted no infection.

He saw to it that Sam was settled comfortably in Dean’s room, and that the nurses all knew where he was. Before heading back into the laboratory space in the morgue, he managed to find Hannah alone in the kitchen, and steeled himself to apologise to her.

“Hannah,” he began, feeling awkward and stilted already, “I have to apologise to you for the manner in which I treated you yesterday. Although I was angered by your tone, I should not have been so cruel about it. I regret that, and I am sorry for hurting you. You deserved better from me.”

She blushed but met his eyes. “You were right to chastise me. I prayed over the matter last night and I am… aware that my behaviour towards Detective Winchester in particular has been… not what it should be. It wasn’t Christian of me. I will try to do better, now. I’m making him some tartlets,” she added shyly. “Well, for everyone who can eat solid food in the hospital, really, but I know he likes them and I thought - I thought I would apologise to him.” She looked away, and when she looked back her eyes were brilliant with tears. “What’s happening to him is awful. I had thought we were safe from it all, in here. I fear we will all be more easy to upset, now.”

“You’re right, of course,” Castiel realised. “We should all meet to talk over this. The past month has been hard on all of us, and the next ten days will be… very taxing for me.”

“I can organise that, if you like. I know how busy you are.” Hannah smiled tentatively at him, and he was struck once again by how much he relied on her - on all of the nurses here. He would have to find a way to show them his appreciation properly after all of this was done.

“That would be very good, thank you. I don’t deserve you, truly. Your assistance is invaluable.”

He retreated to the basement to calm himself with raw science. The work was tedious and complex, but at the end of the day he had the proof he needed from his sacrificial rats: the substance created by the body in primary and secondary infections was similar, but there were crucial differences which demonstrated that it was not a straight infection from one patient to the other.

But what accounted for the differences, then? What made the secondary infection possible? It had to be something to do with the mating gland, that was the infected organ, but it was poorly understood by medical science, as much as the mating bite itself was. People had devoted their lives to finding out more about it, to no avail.

He needed to take a break. Perhaps he would talk this over with the Detective; Dean was remarkably good at asking the right questions to prompt Castiel’s mind into making an unseen connection. The pleasure of being able to talk things through this way had been the first thing that drew him to Dean, three years past. They had had many such conversations since. He refused to think about what it might be to lose that pleasure.

When he reached to room, though, he found it occupied not only with both Winchesters, but his own cousin as well. “Gabriel? What are you doing here?”

“Flirting shamelessly with a widower and annoying a sick man, of course,” Gabriel replied smartly. His usual smirk was absent, though, replaced with a knowing compassion that Castiel found difficult to be on the receiving end of. “Sit down, Coz, and have some tea. There’s a tartlet reserved for you, too.”

His desk chair had been purloined just so he could sit in the room with them all, apparently, although it was a tight fit. Castiel fixed the trio with a glare. “None of you better have moved this chair,” he frowned. “You’re not in any condition to do so.”

Dean shook his head and raised his hands, which convinced Castiel of his innocence in the matter rather more than his usual wide-eyed denials of wrongdoing, but Gabriel and Sam both looked guilty. “I only used my left hand,” Sam began at the same time as Gabriel protested, “I just pushed a little, nothing strenuous.” Castiel rolled his eyes and sank into his chair wearily, cradling his head in his hands for a moment.

“You could have asked someone,” he said quietly. “Or waited for me to return. You must learn to ask for help, instead of undertaking activities which carry no small degree of risk to your persons.” Too late, he remembered that Gabriel was likely still keeping his pregnancy secret, but when he looked up he saw his cousin cupping a protective hand over the small swell of his stomach and looking shame-faced.

Sam too was looking ashamed. “I feel so much better today, you see. My increased energy fooled me into thinking that I would be perfectly safe, but you’re right, of course. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

Castiel focussed all of his attention on Sam and pulled out a notebook and a pencil stub. “Better how?” he demanded. “Give me all of the details, please.”

“My appetite is better, and I feel more alert. Clearer within my own mind. And I don’t feel the same dragging fatigue as I did before. Still nothing like what I was like before, you understand, but normally it takes three or four weeks to get back even this much after a period of illness, and of course it only lasts another two weeks before the next bout strikes.”

“Why such a defined period of illness, though?” Gabriel wondered aloud. “I know I don’t have your medical knowledge, Cassie, but in nature such regularity suggests an underlying reason.”

A quiet voice came from the doorway to Castiel’s office; Miss Moore, early for her evening shift. “Because of the rut cycle.” Embarrassment stained her cheeks but her voice was steady and her head held high. “I thought the same thing, Mr Milton, and investigated further. Rut is normally experienced one every three months or so, but in the middle of the cycle there is a corresponding period of fertility decrease2 that must be a part of the whole.”

She glanced at Castiel for approval, and he nodded to continue, his mind racing as it slotted this new information into his knowledge. “It’s obvious that the secondary victims, at least, are related to the mating bond. That in turn controls when heat and rut are experienced by both mates if they have them. So it makes sense that Mr Winchester’s rut cycle would be affecting his period of illness somehow. I’m not sure exactly how, though. I hoped to investigate more tonight.”

Sam had turned an unflattering shade of puce, but nevertheless managed to gather himself enough to respond. “My illness has suppressed my ruts, but I keep a diary. I can find the appropriate information, although I will need to return home to fetch it.”

“I have a driver outside,” Gabriel offered. “You can make use of him to ferry you home and back, so long as Castiel agrees.”

Castiel himself looked to Dean’s condition before giving his answer. The man was clearly exhausted from a long day of pouring over his notes and the hours of company, and would benefit from rest before suppertime. “Very well. Jessica, please ring for a porter to assist Mr Winchester in case he over-exerts himself.” Sam hunched down guiltily. “Please return to your ward when you come back, Sam, I’ll want to check you over thoroughly. In the meantime, Gabriel, you and I will retire next door and leave the Detective to his rest.”

Dean didn’t even make a murmur of complaint at that, a sure sign he knew he had hit his limits. Castiel quickly checked him over before leaving him to sleep; his fever was spiking, but that was normal for this time of the day in his fellow patients. “Rest, Dean,” he murmured when he was done. “You’ll be woken for supper in two hours, and then you can speak to Sam again if you like.” He smoothed another peppermint-soaked cloth over Dean’s forehead, and dimmed the lights as he left the room.

Gabriel had made himself at home in Castiel’s study, lounging comfortably on the couch and nibbling a biscuit. His face was grave, though. “How are you feeling? Truly, Cassie, don’t try to hide behind your usual stoicism.”

“Increasingly desperate, frankly.” Castiel perched next to Gabriel instead of seating himself away, hoping for comfort in familiarity. He received it in the form of an embrace that he sank into greedily, filling his nose with the warm, safe, and above all happy scent of family.

“Well, I have news that will help, I hope,” Gabriel said after a few moments. He released Castiel and poured him a cup of tea with a generous splash of brandy. “I remembered why it sounded familiar. When we were in Southern Africa, Bechuanaland3 to be precise, I encountered some papers written by a fellow named Edlund. He had been gathering tribal customs and stories for publication. He wrote about a particular people who have a peculiar mating ritual I believe will be of considerable interest to you.”

“Go on,” Castiel urged eagerly. He sipped his tea and finally ate the tartlet kept aside for him.

“They don’t routinely mate with one another in the sense we do. Oh, they form relationships, sometimes even long-term ones akin to marriages, but they never bite each other without permission from their gods. Their priests vigorously enforce this and any who disobey are cast out. They believe that only those who have proven themselves to be two parts of the same soul should be mated.

“But people are people the world over, and inevitably someone thinks that their intended lover is the other part of their soul. So, alone, they go to the priests and request a trial. The priests use a particular substance created from some kind of poisonous creature, and induce a terrible illness in the hopeful lover. Their intended is kept away save for one ritual visit. If the pairing has indeed been foretold by the gods, the intended too falls ill, and experiences a terrible longing for the other part of their soul.

“I’m not finished yet, Cassie, it gets better. Upon witnessing this, the lover is then given the cure by the priest, and both he and his intended - or she and hers - are branded on the shoulder by the priests, to show that they can be mated only to each other, and that they have been touched by the gods. But an unsuccessful attempts is met with death, because the priests withhold the cure from any who were judged unworthy.”

Castiel closed his mouth where it had hung open. “This is… it describes the illness too accurately to be coincidence, surely?”

“That’s what I thought. This Edlund chap returned to the States after his African Grand Tour in a state of nervous collapse. He’s staying in a Sanitorium up-state. I kept a copy of the original notes, they were well-told and I rather thought to approach him to sponsor his writing, but I only rediscovered the notes last night. They’d been packed badly.”

“I doubt he had much more information on which creature, and how the cure worked,” Castiel sighed. “Still, it proves that one exists. Perhaps some members of this tribe have made it to America?”

“I can do you better than that. Kali and I are the foremost experts on natural poisons in Southern Africa right now. We collected vast swathes of research when we were out there. The answer must be in there.”

Brightening again, Castiel remembered why he had requested Gabriel’s presence in the first place. “I have something that should help, although you must swear yourself to secrecy - or, better, I’ll get Detective Winchester to officially commandeer your expertise. You’ve heard about the break-ins at the zoo?”

“Half of those were my bloody finds in the first place,” Gabriel grumbled. “Yes, I know of it.”

“Dean and his colleagues believe the thefts are linked to attempts to manufacture this poison. I have a list of everything stolen, with dates. The first theft was almost certainly the most relevant, but the others might be too.”

Gabriel’s eyes lit up with golden fire. “Now that will help a great deal.”

 

By the fourth evening of his stay in hospital, Dean was finally forced to admit that he could no longer work on the case. His head ached abominably whenever he tried to read, and his eyes barely managed to focus on one word at a time. His handwriting had become weak and shaking. To cap it all, he felt dreadful all the time, instead of merely when his fever was high. The poison within him was attacking him in earnest now.

Charlie had managed to get samples of the poison, or toxin, whichever it was, and Castiel had been in the laboratory for all the hours in the day. The son of one of the nurses, a beautiful Omega lad who was training to become a doctor, had been drafted in to help ease the burden this placed on Miss Moore. Kevin Tran was young but furiously clever, and he had begun to settle into his duties after the jittery nerves of yesterday.

Dean folded up his last letters and hid them amongst his case papers. Someone would find them and distribute them upon his death. And if he didn’t die, well, no-one would need to find them.

He was aware that his mood had started to darken, but that was expected, and he had even prepared himself a little for it. He had a list of his happiest images and memories to recall, and he was making an honest attempt at keeping the worst of the depression and longing at bay. His heart ached, not physically but emotionally; he felt a powerful longing for those he had lost: his long-dead mother, and Uncle Bobby who had raised him and Sam after their father abandoned him. He even longed for his father: not who the man had become, but who he had been in Dean’s childhood.

All lost to him for the moment, but if the preachers were right he might see them again soon. The thought failed to comfort him. He covered his aching eyes with his arm and tried to sleep, to dull all of his pain.

It was dark when he awoke, gasping out of some unformed nightmare of grey trees and faceless monsters. Turning up the lamp revealed a covered bowl of lukewarm gruel sitting beside some bread and butter, with a fresh jug of water next to it. He forced himself to eat it all, although it sat uneasily in his stomach for a time before settling. He would have to mention that his nausea was increasing the next time someone came around.

Using the chamberpot proved challenging, but not insurmountably so. He was definitely becoming unsteady on his feet though, and climbing back into bed was exhausting. He would soon need assistance with that as well, and his humiliation would be complete. Hopefully by then he would be too depressed to care.

Too restless to fall back asleep straight away, Dean couldn’t think of anything to do with his time that might entertain him for long. His thoughts drifted, as they so often had during his stay here, to Castiel. He could picture him down there in the laboratory, peering into his microscope and muttering to himself, little half-formed sentences betraying his thoughts to a careful listener. Sometimes he hummed to himself when things were going particularly well, but more usually it was tiny grumbles and little frowns and squints.

Dean longed for him most of all, but not even his presence was enough, because Castiel the man was not who he longed for, not truly; it was Castiel the oft-imagined lover, tender and caring. It was a shameful thing for a grown man to picture, and he had spent months trying to deny himself those thoughts. But they had crept into his dreams, and it was an easy thing to curl up in bed and imagine those strong arms holding him through the night, whispering small soothing things when Dean’s head throbbed too hard, or his stomach roiled, or his heart ached.

He fell asleep feeling both comforted and terribly alone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for more off-camera medical tests on animals. This is the last chapter with a content warning.

Castiel’s sleep was disturbed by a moan from down the corridor as one of the toxin victims called out loudly in her sleep over and over. He hurried down to try to calm her before she woke up the rest of the hospital, but Samandriel was already there, soothing her dreams with low words and a comforting touch. He smiled at Castiel and shooed him away.

He was nearly back in his office when it occurred to him that not once had he heard Dean moan aloud in his sleep. True, Castiel had left for home last night, to get one good night’s rest in his own bed before the long vigil began, but after nearly a week in hospital he would have expected Dean to be much more vocal and restless at night by now.

Turning his lamp as low as possible, he slipped into Dean’s room and took a seat beside him. He was still just now, deep in slumber, but soon enough his eyes began to move under the lids. This was the time when experience taught him that the victims of the poison would begin to moan or cry out.

Dean, however, remained silent. His limbs twitched, but every move was inward rather than outward, as if to protect himself; his lips moved, but nothing emerged from his lips save the occasional sigh or gasp.

Castiel would have taken it for normal dreaming until tears began to roll down Dean’s cheeks freely, his face contorted in terrible grief. Alarmed, he drew closer and took Dean’s hand gently.

“Don’t be upset, Dean, you’re not alone,” he murmured in his most soothing voice. “There’s nothing to fear.” He kept up a litany of similar reassurances whilst Dean clung to his hand like a drowning man, eventually easing into deeper slumber. It hurt Castiel deeply to see him so vulnerable and upset, even in sleep; he was normally such a strong and vital presence that it was a shock to see behind the façade, to realise how much pain he carried within him.

No wonder that he was so exhausted during the days now, if his dreams were wearing him out like that. The other patients had their dreams soothed away immediately after they started stirring, but Dean was left alone in his silence. Perhaps the time had come to move him in the the rest of the patients for better care?

But no, Castiel could provide that himself. Now that he knew what to listen for, it would be obvious to him even in his sleep. There could be no mistaking those tiny noises of despair; they would haunt him for a long time to come. He would just have to ensure that everyone else knew what to look for, so that they too could soothe away whatever horrors Dean was seeing.

He learned more about it the next day, as Sam sat beside his brother’s bed in a terrible mirroring of the first time Castiel had met him. Dean was asleep again after a coughing fit that had scared them all, with far too much blood bubbling to his lips; Castiel suspected a capillary had been damaged, and prayed that it wouldn’t be an artery next time. He’d lost consumptive patients that way in the past, and didn’t relish the thought of seeing it happen again.

“I heard all the others last night, but not him,” Sam said quietly. “He looks peaceful just now. Do you think he might have been spared the nightmares?”

“I truly wish that was the case, but I fear not. It’s just that he is silent whilst in the grips of them.” Castiel began carefully cleaning Dean’s face and hands of blood; the bedclothes would have to wait until he was awake again.

“He spent months silent, after Mamma died,” Sam revealed. “I barely remember her, but I remember how silent Dean was. That might be why.”

Judging from how Dean had stilled and silenced himself the few times that whimpers had spilled out, Castiel rather suspected another, more violent, source for that instinct. Still, being mute for a time had undoubtedly taught Dean much about swallowing words and involuntary noises. “I know that this is a private matter, but how exactly did your mother die? It might help Dean if I knew what he was likely seeing in his dreams. He’s never been forthcoming on the matter.”

Sam nodded, a shadow of old pain coming across his face. “Our father was away working - this would have been a few years before the war. I was around four, I think, and Dean perhaps eight. She was ill for some time, coughing in the night and waking with blood on her pillow.”

“Tuberculosis,” Castiel sighed. That would explain why Dean became so distressed about coughing when his fever was high or he was half-asleep, but Castiel rather thought that Sam would be better off not knowing about that. He didn’t need more things to worry himself about.

“She got sicker and sicker. Our neighbours wouldn’t help, they said it was her fault for marrying an Alpha man, that she was unnatural for loving another Alpha,” Sam continued distantly. “Word spread about her. Father had finally returned home when someone threw a burning torch into the house. We all managed to escape, but… the smoke, you see, she couldn’t stop coughing, and she died that night. We buried her and left town the next day..”

“Good God,” Castiel breathed, horrified at the cruelty. “How terrible for you all.”

“Father dragged us around from place to place, doing odd jobs and mending things. Joined up when the war came but got shot and invalided out. We were hungry a lot. Eventually we came here, and one day Father left, and never returned. Dean kept me fed for weeks before Uncle Bobby found us and took us in. His wife had known our mother, you see, so he felt it was his duty to become our guardian.”

Castiel blinked away tears. “His dreams must be dark indeed, then. Thank you for telling me this, Sam. I’ll keep it in confidence.” Sam nodded, and turned his attention back to his sleeping brother.

Castiel’s research had halted for the time being, with no new information to pore over and nothing left of the tiny samples of encysted toxin to work with, and his day passed in the care of his patients. Another dozen victims, in various stages of distress, had been transferred to his care when it became obvious that his research was the most promising and presented the greatest chance of a cure. Whilst Castiel appreciated the compliment, he was slightly overwhelmed by the amount of work.

Fortunately, two doctors and six trained nurses had volunteered their time to help with the patients, so they were all well cared for. The extra staff had finally justified expanding upwards into the second floor of the building; the rooms had been outfitted years ago, but Castiel had never managed to attract enough investments or bequests to be able to employ more people properly. Even if it was temporary, it felt good to be able to help more people.

He looked in on Dean every hour or two to make sure he was resting properly, and that he had not further damaged his lungs in a coughing fit. He was becoming markedly worse, following the same pattern as the other victims; the fever glazed his eyes and dulled his wits, he was apathetic and listless, and he was struggling to eat and drink.

Sam, in contrast, was looking better and better. His appetite had returned with a vengeance, and colour was returning to his cheeks. With each passing day Castiel was more and more convinced that the secondary victims, at least, could be cured of their malady. Those under his care had all been apprised of this, but only those whose mates were already dead had been operated on; the rest refused to leave their mates’ sides.

Castiel sympathised. Given the same choice, he would doubtless make the same decision. Professionally, however, he knew their chances of a good recovery would be higher if they were operated on earlier rather than later, and at least one of the new doctors had grumbled over that fact before Mrs Tran had taken it upon herself to educate the Alpha woman, Dr Sands, about the nature of having, and losing, a mate. No further complaints had been heard.

He had just handed over his duties to Dr Ezekiel, the other new doctor, when Gabriel’s butler burst into his office with windblown hair and a note clutched in his hand. “For you, Dr Novak. Mr Milton was most insistent you receive this immediately. I am at your disposal.”

Castiel tore the letter open with trembling hands, falling into his chair as the words began to sink in.

_Dearest Coz, No luck with Edlund, man seems to have disappeared, but K & I have found your creature, a toad from SA that lives on a tree charmingly called the Bastard Yellowwood1. (No, I don’t know why it’s called that, and I didn’t name it.) Field observations revealed that the chacma baboon feeds on this toad after eating the leaves of a shrub called Imfohlafohlane2 from same location. Looking for shrub now, think some in Botanic Gardens, also approaching private collectors, will let you know the instant I find it. Also approached a friend who collects amphibians to see if he has live toad. Send word back about your Detective, we’re worried about your silence. Yours, G._

Ezekiel was still in the room, looking a little professionally concerned at Castiel. “He’s found it,” he explained through numb lips. “My cousin. He’s found the creature that created the toxin, and he thinks there is a plant which neutralises it. He’s looking for it now.”

“Thank God,” breathed Ezekiel. He, too, sat down abruptly. “Thank God.” He bent his head in what looked like fervent prayer.

“I should write to Detectives Bradbury and Henriksen, and back to Gabriel, of course,” Castiel said. He looked over at the butler, who had smoothed his hair and recovered his poise. “Would you be willing to deliver those for me?”

“Of course, sir. As I said, I am at your disposal.”

Castiel wrote a slightly more detailed letter than he had received to the Detectives, outlining the steps he would be taking if (hopefully when) he received samples of the plant used to counter the toxin, and the amount of time he expected those experiments to take before a viable treatment might be found. Laypeople frequently underestimated how long such matters took; even working at his fastest pace, Castiel still anticipated several days of work ahead of him, and that all depended on how long Gabriel took, and how much plant-matter he could obtain.

He then scrawled the required update to Gabriel. _A thousand thanks for your efforts, and ten thousand more if you find me this plant. D.W. declining but still coherent. S.W. continues to improve. Yours ever, Cas._ He handed both notes to the helpful butler, along with instructions to stop in at the kitchen before he left, and turned to Dr Ezekiel feeling more hopeful than he had in days.

“I think we should tell the staff that progress is being made, but keep the details from the patients, in order to manage their hopes better. I want them to keep fighting, but how terrible it must be, to know that a cure is within reach but still feel yourself slipping away before it is found.” His heart clenched at that thought; it was, of course, precisely the situation that Dean might find himself in, if Castiel was not swift enough.

“I agree. I’ll let everyone who’s working tonight know. I’ll leave you to your work, Doctor. I’ll see you in the morning.” Dr Ezekiel left looking much more energised and positive than he had seemed over the past few days; he had lost many patients in the hospital he normally worked in, and it had worn him down a great deal. Castiel was very glad to see him happier.

The next task before him was obvious; he needed to tell Dean the good news. Unlike the other patients he was intimately involved in the cure of this poison, and the details might help him to uncover the murderers.

Castiel ignored the whisper of doubt and fear inside him that said that the Detective might die before he could learn the truth, and headed to the kitchen to pick up food for himself and Dean. He wasn’t particularly hungry, his body rhythms upset by the long hours and sleep interference, but this was the time for food so he would eat.

Now that Sam had been discharged, he had been gently encouraged to go home in the evenings, at least until Dean approached the final crisis. He still needed more rest than a healthy Alpha man would normally need, although he was stronger every day as his body purged itself of any lingering toxins from his long illness.

With Sam gone, though, Dean was alone unless Castiel or one of the nurses sat with him. Castiel had more work that he wanted to do this evening, but he could easily do it in Dean’s room as it was all theoretical. It was a special kind of selfishness, to want to be with him as much as possible, but as long as it importuned no-one then Castiel was happy to indulge it.

Dean mustered a faint smile when Castiel entered the room, closing the door again quickly against the now-pervasive scent of sickness and despair. “Finished for the day, Cas? Oh, and you brought more food, lovely.” He grimaced at the bread and gruel, appetite well and truly burned out by the fever.

“Eat as much as you can, and I won’t scold you over it,” Castiel replied agreeably. “Of course, if you want to maintain your physique then you’ll eat it all. But that’s entirely up to you.” He passed the bowl of lighter gruel over and allowed himself to smirk at Dean’s put-upon expression. “Bon appetit.”

To his credit, Dean ate nearly all of it before he set the bowl aside queasily. “That’s all I can manage. I’ve been getting increasingly nauseated from food,” he confessed, although it came as no surprise to Castiel. “Is that the fever, or the poison?”

“A little of both, I think,” Castiel replied absently, finally finishing his own bowl. He cleared the dishes away and checked Dean’s pulse, breath sounds, and temperature before settling back down. “I had news from Gabriel today.”

“How’s his research coming?” Dean was lying back against a small mountain of pillows to stay in a seated position, but his eyes were bright and his fever low.

“He thinks he’s found the answer. A tree toad from South Africa. Even better, he thinks he knows the plant which produces an antidote. He’s looking for samples now.”

Dean was tense and still. “Does that mean a cure?”

“I hope so. Normally I wouldn’t even dream to find one, but we know one exists. I - I’m afraid I don’t know how long it will take me to find one, even if he can get me the plant tomorrow,” Castiel admitted in a low voice. “But I thought that you should know that there is hope. And another piece of information for your investigation.”

Dean wiped his eyes before speaking, and his voice was unsteady. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “You have no idea what it means, to know that there’s hope that these murders will stop. Knowing that makes this bearable.”

Castiel realised then that Dean had resigned himself to dying. His skin crawled with the horror and unfairness of it all, and his throat grew tight with grief. “Please don’t stop fighting,” he whispered. “I will not stop fighting on your behalf. But if you give up then you’ll succumb faster, I’ve seen it before, you must keep fighting until - until I give you permission to stop. Please, Dean. Promise me.”

“Well, shit, if you’re so sure, I promise.” Dean’s hand found Castiel’s and squeezed it reassuringly, and there was still a comforting amount of strength there. “I’ve been preparing myself for the worst for a long time now. Don’t mean I’m not fighting.” His voice was sincere, and his accent charmingly broad.

It took a moment before Castiel could speak again. “Good. I’ll be very annoyed with you if you disobey.”

When he finally retired for the night, Dean sleeping restlessly in the next room, the memory of that brief moment of contact and comfort warmed him until he drifted off. It was to be the last good night’s sleep he had for some time.

 

Whilst Gabriel’s reputation amongst the family was one of inconsistency and unreliability, in fact once his attention was piqued he was very focused. Two days after the message, Castiel was the proud owner of a flourishing shrub from the hothouse of a collector, with several more already located, and one small and unassuming toad which placidly ate the grubs he fed it.

He had begun work to distil the active ingredient from the leaves, and had demonstrated to his satisfaction that the leaves did cure the toxin in its raw form, but without access to the exact substance used by the murderers he was unable to progress much further. Another urgent note to the Detectives had been penned this morning, but short of doing their jobs for them there was nothing that Castiel could do to speed up the acquisition.

The stress was beginning to take its toll. He was suffering from headaches and his sleep was disturbed, leaving him tired and prone to fits of despondency during his waking hours. He was also growing increasingly anxious about Dean, who was completely bed-bound now, barely able to eat and unable to muster any semblance of good cheer at all. He would soon enter the final decline of delirium leading to coma and death.

Even thinking about it was enough to drive Castiel to his feet and propel him into Dean’s room to check on his condition. He was surprised to find Detective Bradbury there, together with an older Beta man that Castiel didn’t recognise. Dean was awake and propped up on pillows again, his face almost as pale as the sheets where it was not flushed with fever, but he was alert and seemed to be engaged with the conversation.

“So after that, the Captain finally gave permission to move in, but half of them were gone, of course,” Bradbury said grimly, clearly finishing a story.

“The questioning was a shambles but we have more names to look into, at least. And I’m personally taking over the detail watching Morgenstern. I’m sure he’ll talk. Eventually.” The older man spoke with a British accent of some kind, but Castiel couldn’t place it. “And look, the man of the hour,” he continued, turning to Castiel. “Dr Novak, a pleasure to meet you at last. I’m Lieutenant Crowley. We bring gifts.”

Bradbury reached into her suit pocket and pulled out three vials carefully, handing them over to Castiel with a smile. “There’s more, but it’s still being counted right now. We would have come to you immediately, but we only got here five minutes ago ourselves.”

The vials were sealed with cork and wax, and looked like standard equipment to Castiel’s practised eye. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “I’ll start work right away.”

“Not quite right away, I hope, I’d like a word,” the Lieutenant said smoothly. “Bradbury, keep Winchester here entertained, would you?”

She smiled brightly, but there was still grief in her eyes when she looked at her friend. “Sure thing, boss.”

With the connecting door shut, the conversation in the sick-room was nearly entirely muted. Crowley peered around Castiel’s office curiously but made no comment on anything he saw there. “How can I help you, Lieutenant?” Castiel asked politely. He was itching to begin experimentation, but the man was powerful enough that he didn’t want to offend him.

“My constables and detectives are getting angry that one of our own has been hit, but there’s a lot of apprehension that we could all be targeted if we look too hard for a cure. I’m giving you uniformed protection for as long as it takes to find it. We’re barely holding the City together as it stands, I don’t need you caught in a riot or by an assassin,” Crowley said bluntly. “I need you to give daily reports about this, and I want the names of as many other doctors or scientists that you think could do the work as well as you, and that you trust, by the end of the day.”

Castiel frowned at his last words. “You suspect one of my colleagues,” he realised. “Why? There are many wealthy hobbyists in the City with the ability and equipment to have come up with the original idea.”

“Winchester went round nearly all of the doctors and scientists in the City before he was targeted, as well as the usual criminal suspects. He’s done a lot of work building up the connections between the victims, but his own case seems much more like a cruel punishment than outright panic in the way that Romano’s murder was. That ties him back to the instigator, and he didn’t interview hobbyists.” Crowley’s eyes were dark with anger. “He should have had a lot more back-up than he did. The Captain left him out for the wolves, and I’m going to find out why. But I don’t need Squirrel to know that right now, it won’t help him survive this.”

“I fully understand your concern,” Castiel agreed. “Although… Squirrel?”

Crowley barked a laugh. “First time I met him, over a decade ago when he was still a constable, he was crouched in a tree trying to rescue some old lady’s cat. An angry squirrel was running all over him. The nickname amuses me and annoys him, which makes it perfect.”

Castiel laughed as he pictured it, but the Lieutenant wasn’t finished. “I’m fond of the boy, although I’ll thank you not to tell him that. His old man trained me and I was right fond of him too, and I promised him I’d keep an eye on Dean before he died. I don’t want to have to bury him.”

“I don’t want that either, sir,” Castiel replied softly. “I’ll give you your list just now and begin working with the toxin.” The list was the work of five minutes’ thought; Castiel had butted heads with too many of his colleagues regarding the proper use of antiseptic substances in wound care to think very highly of most of them, although there were a few names in the biological sciences he trusted.

He shook hands with Crowley, quickly checked Dean’s vitals for the patient log, and returned to the basement laboratory with the precious vials. He began work on distilling one of them into its constituent parts, as far as was possible, hoping to discover the exact quantity of the original toad toxin contained in the substance, and set one aside for later usage. The remaining vial he divided up into tiny amounts in syringes, and he set to work on the first of the live experiments.

The work was engrossing and exacting, and he lost track of time easily. It was only a few hours before worry over Dean sent him back upstairs, where he found him being checked over by Miss Moore in his sleep.

“How is he?” Noticing a faint frown on Dean’s face, Castiel prepared another peppermint soaked cloth to ease any tension in his head.

“He’s declining. Slower than most, though. Perhaps being unmated has changed the effect somehow, although I rather think it’s just that he’s in better condition than most of the victims. He’s losing that condition now, though,” she sighed. “He’s lost a lot of weight already.”

Indeed, the fine bones of his face were markedly sharper than they had been even a few days ago. Castiel smoothed the cloth over Dean’s forehead. His hand trembled minutely and he found himself swaying a little. “He’s dying,” he whispered through numb lips. “I fear the cure I am working on will come too late for him.”

A strong hand guided him to a chair, and a handkerchief gently wiped at his face. “Look at me, Dr Novak. When was the last time you ate?”

He blinked slowly at Miss Moore. “I had some toast for breakfast.” He hadn’t enjoyed it, but he had been hungry.

“Have you - have you been sleeping well?” She seemed tense for some reason.

“Not these last few days,” he admitted. “The work, and the worry - you know how it can affect the body.”

She hummed noncommittally and felt his forehead. “Any headaches?”

He began to see the shape of her questioning. “The work is requires a lot of focus, and it’s hard on the eyes. I’m sure I’m not ill, Jessica.”

“You’re running a low fever,” she said quietly but firmly. “Your pulse is elevated. You seem very afraid for Detective Winchester, more than the current circumstances warrant. You must understand my concern, here.”

“He’s not my mate!” Castiel hissed. “He’s never shown the slightest hint of desire for me! I can’t be a secondary victim. It’s not possible.”

Jessica’s face was grave and her eyes full of terrible compassion. “But what of your own heart, Doctor? I read the account your cousin gave us. I don’t believe being mated is a requirement for falling ill.”

Castiel closed his eyes and tried to recapture how he had felt before he had decided to come up here. It was easy; even in the same room, he still felt the same worry and desire to be close. “I think, under the circumstances, you should call me Castiel. You have a right to it, as my doctor. And friend.” He opened his eyes and blinked away the tears that threatened to return. “I believe I shall have need of both, in the coming days.”

Her lips trembled, but she took his hands and squeezed them tight. “What do you need me to do?”

 

Every moment spent in the laboratory was painful, but Castiel was finally making progress. His last pair of rats had survived their dosing with the sample from the vials; he had ascertained that the actual toxin from the toad had been considerably watered down, although only tiny amounts were required to kill a full-grown and healthy adult; and he was now working on the calculations as to how much of the antidote would be required to neutralise it.

His head throbbed, his heart ached with longing and fear, his eyes were blurred with fatigue, and his hand was cramping. He had a further series of experiments to conduct on his rats before he would permit human trials to begin, but he would need someone else to conduct them. The material had been laid out and he had explained what needed to be done to Miss Moore at length, but first he would need to defeat his next enemy: the stairs.

No-one had to know that he needed to sit down halfway through climbing them, partly from fatigue and partly vertigo, but he would report it to Jessica dutifully. She would ban him from the laboratory, of course, but she could not stop him from working on the calculations in his office. Or, more likely, Dean’s sickroom. The light was good in there.

When he reached it, though, Sam was sitting next to his brother and praying quietly, and Castiel didn’t want to disturb his privacy no matter how much he longed to be in the room with them. He retreated to his office, wrapped himself up in his favourite blanket - a tattered thing he had had since childhood - and tried to focus on the calculations again.

He had made embarrassingly little progress by the time Jessica came to his room. She took one look at him and rolled her eyes in disgust. “Lie down, Castiel, for Heaven’s sake. You’re barely awake right now.”

Grumble as he might, he couldn’t deny that the fatigue running through his veins made the thought of sleep very tempting. “Very well. But please begin the final round of experiments. We need to be sure the initial results are repeatable.”

“So you’ve said,” she replied dryly, helping him onto the truckle bed that now took up much of the room. “I’ll return in a few hours. Do not get up until I come back, Castiel, I mean it. Just rest for now.” As a precaution, she swept up his workings - against his considerable protests - and turned the lamps low before she left.

Sleep came to Castiel easily, but he awoke several times from dreams of death and longing, made all the worse by being so close to the object of his desire but being unable to touch him at all.

When his body decided it had had enough of this tortured rest, he lay awake in the dim light and brooded upon his misfortunes for a time. He had never been lucky in love, hence why he was still unwed in his mid thirties; his vocation had taken much of his time and energy over the past decade and a half of practice, and he had never been good at the kind of small talk that forming friendships or relationships depended upon.

Two decades of suffering through heats by himself had left him feeling alone and unfulfilled in at least one regard, and Castiel knew that he craved the companionship of a lover just as much as he craved the casual embraces and gentle romantic gestures that he could see in Gabriel and Kali, or his parents when they had lived. As an Omega man, he was supposed to be perfectly self-contained, the ideal blend of the masculine and the feminine talked of in Scripture; but the reality, in his experience, was far murkier.

When Detective Dean Winchester had walked into his life, newly promoted and with a burning desire to prove himself to the world and damn the consequences, Castiel had initially dismissed him as nothing more than society as a whole did. Another Alpha male who thought the world owed him for the privilege of having a knot, dismissive of the finer things in life and arrogant to boot. No self-respecting Omega man would look at him twice.

But that first investigation had proved Castiel wrong. Winchester was a man of deep passion and anger, as all Alpha men were, but he focused and controlled those instincts to a degree that any cultured Omega man would be proud of having cultivated in himself. He was fiercely intelligent, seeing patterns before Castiel ever suspected they existed, and the undeniable arrogance hid a vulnerability conditioned by years of being dismissed and diminished. Castiel had quickly begun to admire him.

The attraction took longer to admit to. It wasn’t hard to acknowledge that the man was attractive, anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But for Castiel to be attracted to him? He had always been drawn more to men than women, and his few sexual experiences had all been with men, but Alpha men had never appealed. They wanted too much to dominate, and Castiel did not like to submit.

Or at least so he had thought. Getting to know Dean had meant that Castiel slowly began to challenge his own expectations about all of the sexes. His relationships with his patients had improved because of it; he was one of the only doctors in New York who was trusted by Alpha men and Omega women with their particular problems, and he had had patients travel for hours to see him in the past. That would never had happened had it not been for Dean.

He would be as intellectually stagnant as the worst of his peers, were it not for Dean. Living without him would make Castiel less open, less willing to undertake new practices or entertain new ideas.

He was also sure, in his heart of hearts, that Dean was his only - and last - chance of happiness in love. He might find a companion, in time, but he had no expectation of having a family without Dean. Or even having passionate marital relations. That was what was hardest about this; even were Dean to survive, and Castiel prayed daily and nightly for him to do so, he did not desire Castiel in the way that he desired Dean in turn.

He would never have those things. No family, no lover who inspired him. He wept silently for the aching of his own heart and the emptiness of his soul and body.

“Oh, Castiel, I’m sorry to have left you alone for so long. Here, let me help you to sit.” Jessica’s voice startled him out of his reverie, and her embrace gave him some measure of comfort. “Drink this, and here, let me wipe your face.” She handed him a tall glass of cool water flavoured faintly with lemon, and poured a little more of it onto a cloth.

It was soothing and calming to be treated so gently, and he allowed himself to relax under her ministrations whilst drinking the water dutifully. “No, I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I should not have let myself become so upset. My thoughts ran away with me.”

Her arm was still wrapped around his shoulders. “The fault was mine. I got lost in the work. Now I know how it happens to you,” she teased gently, and a faint smile quirked Castiel’s lips. “There, that’s better.”

She helped him up into his chair before sitting on the ottoman beside him and pouring him more water. “I wish you would consider having the cysts removed,” she said quietly. “We’re close to a cure, but-”

“You know why I cannot,” Castiel interrupted. “I know how it sounds. I know it is not… the rational choice. But I would rather feel this way and still be able to - to care for him, to touch his hand, to soothe his nightmares. To be there at the end, if that is what it comes to. Operate immediately afterwards if you will, but let me have this time with him.”

She nodded reluctantly. “My parents would say the same, I’m sure. It’s just so cruel, I can barely comprehend it.”

“Most animals which would feed on the toad would not be mated,” Castiel offered. “Birds mate differently, and the lizard and amphibian kingdoms don’t have the glands at all. This cannot be an intended consequence of the original toxin, at least.”

“I more meant the poisoners. I cannot imagine hating someone else so much that I would want them to suffer like this.”

Castiel sighed wearily. “Unfortunately there are many people who do not share the same opinion as you do.” He eyed the last of his bowl of gruel reluctantly, but took a piece of bread and began mopping up the remains.

“The others are beginning to worry about you,” Jessica said with studied diffidence. “What do you want me to say? Desire for seclusion will only last so long. Hannah is particularly persistent about caring for you.”

“Tell them that my heat approaches, if you must,” Castiel said reluctantly. “They will at least respect my privacy over that, and the timing is almost right.” He had no doubt that his heat cycle would be badly disrupted by this illness, and it might take some time before it recovered afterwards; that was often the case with violent illnesses.

“Yes, that would do it,” she agreed. “I’ll share that, then. Now, once you finish, I’ll see you next door to work there and return to the laboratory. The experiments have gone well so far, but I still have a few more before your numbers are satisfied.”

Sam had been persuaded to depart for a few hours for dinner, so Castiel had no fear of being discovered for the moment. It was imperative that no word of his illness reached Dean’s ears; Castiel had no doubt that he would spend what little energy he had remaining on berating himself, which would weaken him greatly.

It was mercy, not cowardice. Or at least not only cowardice.

Even deep in his own despair, Castiel could tell that Dean was mired in longing and grief from the smell of the room alone. The unmistakable scent of fever and delirium added a sour note, and the tang of blood overlay everything; Dean had coughed in his sleep and bright red stained his lips and face.

Castiel shook off Jessica’s arm and prepared a small basin of water to clean Dean’s face with. He was exhausted and ill, but this task he could and would accomplish. “When do you anticipate returning?” he asked as he worked.

“At least an hour’s time, but no more than two,” she replied. “I’ll check over your calculations and then begin to create the cure, I hope.”

“You hear that, Dean? Only a few hours more,” Castiel murmured. “You can hold on for me that long, surely. I’ll be right here.” He dared to stroke Dean’s cheek and caress his hand.

Deeply unconscious now, Dean remained silent and still, but Jessica disturbed the silence with a small choked noise. Her voice was thick with tears as she spoke. “I’ll speak to his brother about the experimental treatment. He’ll want to come back here in a short while,” she warned.

“I’ll finish the work and dim the lights. I’m sure I look better in the dark,” he said wryly.

“Well, for a given definition of better than includes terrible, I suppose - oh, there we go, now I know you’re fine to work. I’ve missed your glower.” She smiled at him, and arranged his papers on the small desk. “Ring if you need me, I’ll be up as soon as I can be. I’ll let everyone know to call me.”

Castiel thanked her and returned to his ministrations. He spent a short while drying the fever sweat from Dean’s hair and stealing reassuring caresses before settling down to work. In truth, and especially through fresh eyes, the calculations were not so difficult after all; they were tedious but easy enough to work through, and he checked them over twice before turning the lamps low and seating himself next to Dean in preparation for Sam’s arrival.

It was some time before he was disturbed. He held Dean’s hand, and tried to cool his fever with peppermint water on his head and neck. Dean’s lips occasionally moved, and his eyes opened more than once, but there was no recognition or intelligence there, only an animal instinct drawing him towards what little comfort Castiel could provide.

The door opened and Jessica came in, bringing Sam and a bowl of ice with her. “To calm the fever,” she said quietly. “It might help. Can I see your calculations, Castiel?”

“They’re finished. I checked them, I believe they’re right.” He sounded exhausted even to his own ears, and Sam gave him a look of alarm. Castiel waved it off. “I get nervous headaches, sometimes,” he said vaguely, and Sam accepted the evasion and sat on the other side of his brother. It wasn’t even a lie; he did sometimes suffer from nervous headaches. The fact that his head ached abominably for a different reason was neither here nor there.

“I’ll check them and return as soon as I can with the antidote. I’ve worked on a sweetened form of it which should be easier to swallow, it’s just as effective.” Jessica gave them both a tight smile and swept out of the room.

Castiel laboriously prepared cloths of ice for himself and Sam, and set to cooling Dean’s head. It seemed to help, because Dean seemed to recognise them in the brief moments of consciousness he had, but eventually his eyes remained closed and his breathing slowed as he slipped into a coma.

“It won’t be long, now,” Castiel whispered. “Six hours at most. He’s unlikely to wake up again.” Already his body was telling him that Dean was dead, although he knew it was lying.

Sam was not an attractive weeper, it turned out, although he pulled himself together quickly. “If he gets the antidote… can it work, now that he’s so far gone?”

“It might. One of the rats recovered when she had reached this stage. But even if the toxin is neutralised, the damage to his body is still severe enough to cause problems. I suspect it will depend if he can survive that.”

He could picture it in his mind’s eye, the lesions caused by the toxin becoming larger and more pronounced in Dean’s lungs and kidneys and liver. The liver could recover; the kidneys were likely only lightly touched; the lungs, though, could already be succumbing to pneumonia or pleurisy, and his veins were filled with the poisons of his body beginning to stop functioning.

“What about the operation on his glands? When could that be done?”

“Not until the fever breaks and his blood pressure is good enough. He can live with the cysts for a time. They only become a problem when they become thin enough to leak or burst. They might seem like the cause, but in actual fact they are the body’s way of trying to protect itself from the toxin contained within.”

Sam nodded, and they waited in silence for Jessica to return, listening to Dean’s breaths. It did not take her long to return. “Here,” she said breathlessly. “Will he drink, do you think?”

Castiel shook his head. “We’ll have to intubate. He’s comatose. It will take too long to make his body swallow.”

“All of that work to get it tasting nicer, all for nothing,” Jessica said in a trembling voice. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a rubber tube designed for this purpose, tipping Dean’s head back and coaxing the tube into position in moments. Castiel was struck with a faint feeling of pride, surging high enough to cut through the grief and despair for a moment. He basked in it, and smiled at her warmly.

“I’m proud to call you my colleague,” he murmured, pitching his voice for her ears only. “You are a marvellous physician and scientist. Never forget that.”

She blushed furiously but continued with her work, pouring the antidote steadily into Dean’s stomach and gently extubating when finished. “Now we wait,” she said simply. “I’m going to start Mr Cheung on the same treatment; his husband consented once he slipped into delirium. I’ll keep you updated on his progress.”

Castiel nodded. “You know where to find me.”

The silent vigil resumed, and time seemed to stretch out interminably. Castiel’s whole body ached from the tension, and he drifted into a meditative state by counting Dean’s heartbeats through the pulse on his wrist. It was still too fast and too weak.

Sam stood eventually, stretching his long limbs and shaking them out. “I’m going to get some fresh air,” he said quietly. “I’ll return soon. Call for me, if anything - if he-”

“I will,” Castiel promised. He waited until the door had closed and Sam’s footsteps had receded from earshot before grasping Dean’s hand urgently. “Please, Dean. You have to wake up,” he begged. “I cannot imagine life without you. Please wake up. Please be well again.”

He continued in that vein for some time, resting his head against Dean’s hand and speaking in a choked whisper. It felt cool against his forehead, but the pulse was still there under his fingers.

His tears soaked into the bed-linens. “Please, he breathed, and his head throbbed and swam. “Please,” as his stomach churned and his lips grew pale. “Please,” as everything became cold and dark.

He could no longer feel a heartbeat. He could no longer feel Dean’s hand; he was falling to the floor, mercifully cool against his burning skin.

Castiel was still whispering “Please” as the darkness finally claimed him.


	9. Chapter 9

The room was light. His neck and shoulder ached fiercely. His stomach was empty, and his bladder full.

Dean opened his eyes and closed them again almost immediately. “Bright,” he said vaguely. His voice was a ragged whisper.

“Dean! Oh thank God, you’re awake! How are you feeling? I’ll ring for the doctor. Do you need anything?” Sam sounded like he was crying. He probably was. He wore his heart on his sleeve.

“Water would be good,” he managed. “I’m real thirsty.”

Opening his eyes more cautiously this time, he was greeted by Sam’s blotchy, tear-stained face standing over him with a glass of water and a tremulous smile on his face. “Drink slowly, it might make you sick if you drink too quick.”

Dean was too busy drinking careful sips to give Sam the glare he deserved for trying to teach him to suck eggs, but he managed to roll his eyes a little. The effort of lifting his head exhausted him.

A man he didn’t know came into the room, carrying a small case and looking unreasonably happy. “Detective Winchester, I’m so happy to meet you,” he exclaimed. “My name is Dr Ezekiel. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” Dean sighed. “Like I was run over by a carriage. Or four. And my neck is agony.” He frowned at his own words and actively listened to his own body properly. “But I don’t feel sad. I take it Ca- Dr Novak found the antidote?”

“He did indeed, and you’ve responded very well to it, I’m pleased to say. We were able to operate yesterday - do you remember that? You were awake beforehand but I rather thought that the ether might remove your memory of it, it has that effect sometimes.”

He thought hard, and managed to recall a few details but nothing concrete. “Not really,” he admitted. “Last thing I remember properly is, um… Cas reading something to me after Sam went home. You laughed at me,” Dean accused Sam. “Because it was Jane Austen.”

Sam bit his lip and nodded. “That was a week ago. You had the antidote three days after that, and you were… very ill for a few days.”

“I was dying, and now I’m not,” Dean said bluntly. “Certainly feels that way.”

“You have more weeks of rest ahead of you, but the antidote has undone a lot of the damage, and we’re confident you’ll make a good recovery,” Dr Ezekiel said.

But not a full recovery, Dean noted silently. Well, it was still more than he had expected two weeks ago, and more than any of the earlier victims had received. “I need to, uh. Pass water.”. The last week of being ill had burned out nearly all of the embarrassment he felt at actually being assisted with such matters, but he was still ashamed to need to ask.

“That’s an excellent sign. I’ll need to check it anyway.” Dr Ezekiel was calm and professional throughout the process of arranging Dean, arranging the bedpan, and then rearranging everything. “No fresh blood, that’s good,” he murmured, peering into the receptacle. “Make sure someone informs me once your bowels move, just to be sure everything’s fine there. A few of the other patients across the city appear to have had some lesions in their intestines.”

“Of course,” Dean said faintly. “Not that I’m not grateful for everything you’re doing for me, but can I see Dr Novak? I wanted to talk to him about the antidote, see if there’s anything that’s important to the case.”

“You’re not to worry about the case until you’re up and about again, and that order comes from both me and your Lieutenant. Dr Novak has taken leave to deal with a personal biological matter. He was running himself ragged at the end there, I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes more time off to recover. In fact, I’ll recommend it if he tries to come back within the week.”

Dr Ezekiel seemed sincerely concerned for Castiel, but he quickly began a thorough investigation of Dean’s stomach and abdomen (tender in places but nothing unexpected, apparently), lungs (still a little congested with phlegm stained the colour of dried blood) and heart (beating normally). By the time he was finished, Dean was exhausted.

“The nurses will check in on you at least every hour, and I’ll return in the evening after supper, if not before. Rest as much as you need to. Samuel, please ring the bell again if anything changes or you becomes concerned.”

“I will, Thank you, Dr Ezekiel. You’ve been a Godsend.” Sam shook the Doctor’s hand and turned back to Dean with a brilliant smile. “What would you like to do now, Dean? The Austen is still here, or I have a newspaper.”

Dean shuffled himself into a more comfortable position. “Need more sleep right now, Sammy,” he sighed. “Being awake’s real tiring right now.”

Sam bent over him and encased him in a warm hug, careful of his injured shoulder. “I’ll be here when you wake. I love you, Dean. You have no idea how happy I am right now.”

“You too, Sammy,” Dean slurred, and fell asleep still wrapped in Sam’s arms.

 

Four days of recovery and Dean was still not allowed to get out of bed. He’d managed to get to his feet and walk around the room last night when the nurses thought he was sleeping, but Sam refused to help him so he hadn’t had any opportunity to try again today yet.

And Dean was restless. Something seemed to itch deep under his skin, but there was nothing physical to address. He’d tried minor calisthenics, as much as he could whilst tucked dutifully in bed, but he wanted to move. It felt almost like something was missing and he had to find it, but he couldn’t think of what.

Sam had left to run some errands for the formidable Mrs Tran, nurse extraordinaire, and Dean was taking his chance. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stood upright, waiting to see if his head would start swimming before moving. It did not, and he stretched his legs out and began walking in small steps around the room with a satisfied smile on his face.

“Well, it seems I won’t need to help you get out of bed, at least,” came an irritated voice from the doorway. “You’re a terrible patient,” Miss Moore admonished.

Dean wasn’t prepared to even try to look guilty, so he just shrugged and gave her his most charming smile. “The quicker I’m up and about, the quicker I can get out of your hair,” he reasoned. “Besides, I need to work the case. I need to, Miss Moore, I have to see this through.”

“I understand,” she said softly. “I’d probably even do the same in your position. If you’re planning to leave soon, though, you won’t have much joy of it unless you take care of yourself properly and exercise caution.”

She ignored his exclamations about how good he would be and took him into the corridor. “Walk to the adjoining door and back. Without holding the wall, or stopping, if you can. When you need to - and I assure you, you will need to - I will come and help you back into bed and we will discuss this like adults.”

Confident in an easy victory, Dean set off down the corridor, walking at a conservative speed. He began to understand that he might have overestimated his stamina about halfway down, and he slowed down considerably on the way back. Sweating and pale, and fighting to stop listing to his left, he made it within two yards of Miss Moore before he was forced to admit defeat.

He braced himself against the wall and breathed deeply as she took his pulse. “Ready for the last few feet? Take my arm.”

In the end, she slipped an arm around his waist as he clung to her shoulder and the wall for support. Getting into bed was a challenge, but Miss Moore was strong and capable, and he was soon lying down and reassessing his decisions.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said honestly. “I should have believed you. I’m just so damn restless - oh, pardon my language,” he added hastily. “And bored. I finished Persuasion yesterday and started Mansefield Park, but Fanny Price is unbearable.”

She laughed and gave him a broad smile. “She is, isn’t she? Apology accepted. I knew you would chafe at this enforced stillness. I’d be worried if you weren’t frustrated, to be perfectly honest.” She disappeared into Castiel’s office and came back with a tray of tea and biscuits, pouring for them both and perching on Dean’s bed companionably.

“I hope this little experiment demonstrated what your problems are likely to be over the next few weeks, at least,” she began. “Your balance has been affected - that should get better relatively quickly, but until it does, you won’t be safe without assistance of some kind. Your stamina again will improve over time. But the lingering fatigue - we just don’t know how long that might last for. Normally, in fevers such as yours, I would expect at least six weeks.”

“Six weeks!” Dean was aghast. “I have to get back to work before then.”

“I’m not saying you can’t work at all during that time, just that you need to husband your resources as much as you can. Rest as much as possible. Try not to undertake unnecessary activities. Make sure you eat regularly throughout the day, and drink a large quantity of fluids - not alcoholic, for preference, and you’ll want to avoid any laudanum or cannabis, anything which masks your fatigue. And no smoking tobacco, either, until your lungs start recovering properly. Mr Gallagher nearly coughed up a lung yesterday when he had a pipe.” She grimaced at the memory.

“I don’t smoke,” Dean replied absently. “I can work with that, I think. I’m sure I can.”

“If you don’t, you’ll prolong your illness and be at risk of further infections. You need to look after yourself. I don’t want to see you in here for anything other than a checkup. And I’m not letting you leave until you can make it to the end of the corridor and back without your heart racing fit to burst.”

“That’s fair,” he sighed. “Can I at least get my case files back again? I can work lying on a bed, and it’ll keep me occupied.” His fingers were fidgeting with the coverlet as he spoke, still restless even after the exhausting corridor trek.

“Yes. But you’ll find they tire you out too,” she warned. “Try not to get frustrated with yourself over it. Take regular breaks to rest your eyes.”

He nodded in understanding, and kept his gaze down as he asked, “Do you know when Dr Novak will be back? I really want to thank him.” And see him, his treacherous mind whispered. And smell him.

“I’m afraid not, no,” she replied a little distantly. “He’s suffering from a mild form of nervous collapse. Nothing that a few weeks’ rest won’t solve. He sends his regards, of course, and hopes to see you again in a month or two.”

Dean’s heart sank, and he suddenly realised what his body wanted to search for; or rather, who he wanted to search for. “I see,” he managed. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disturb his rest, of course. If I - if I give you a letter for him, can you see it gets to him?”

“Of course. Now, see if you can sleep a little before your brother returns, and I’ll send him to fetch your casenotes in the meantime. And let everyone know you are to be assisted on short walks now.” Miss Moore smiled at him again, and cleared the teacups away. “And Dean? Please try to eat a little more at mealtimes. I know it’s a struggle after a long fever, but it will help, I promise.”

He managed to smile and nod, and waited until she had left the room to curl around himself against the ache in his chest - not a physical one, but a deep and abiding sense of abandonment and guilt.

It must be his fault that Castiel was ill. He had pushed himself too hard to keep Dean alive, and it had cost him dearly. Dean knew he wasn’t worth such a sacrifice. Vic and Charlie would find the murderers, or Crowley; they were all good at their jobs and dogged in pursuit of justice. He would probably be more of a hindrance to the investigation than a help, right now.

He was appalled to find that tears had come to his eyes, forcing him to confront the terrible wellspring of emotion that boiled within. He missed Castiel like a missing limb, craving his scent and tormented by the hazy memory of a gentle touch on his face and soothing words murmured in his ear to ease the pain and nightmares.

Dean was lost without him, but Castiel hadn’t even sent a note wishing him well. His heart felt like it might break from the pain of rejection.

 

Castiel fought his way back to consciousness, ignoring the siren song of the comfortable bed and warm eiderdown as well as the lethargy still pulsing through his veins. He opened his eyes to a faint spring sun and the scent of daffodils hanging in the air.

“Morning, Cassie,” Gabriel said quietly. “How are you feeling today?” He was sitting in a plush winged chair in the corner of the room, knitting something small and brightly-coloured, and wearing a garish silk robe.

“Terrible,” Castiel croaked. “But better than yesterday.” He struggled to sit up a little and drink some water left within easy arm’s reach. The movement jarred his still-healing neck and shoulder, and he hissed in pain.

Gabriel was at his side in an instant, taking the glass out of his hands and helping him sit up. “You’re a terrible patient, you know,” he said mildly. “I would have thought you would be better at it, given how much experience you have with treating them.”

Castiel grunted and concentrated on slaking his thirst. “Any word from the hospital today?”

“Indeed, but you’re not getting either letter until you eat breakfast. All of it.” Gabriel grinned at him. “Bribery is a very good motivator, I find.”

The honeyed porridge was easy to eat, but Castiel grumbled his way through it, shooting his best glowers in Gabriel’s direction. Alas, he was unmoved. He ignored Castiel completely, in fact, and chattered about the baby moving, which it was doing quite vigorously apparently, and the weather, and the neighbours, and a thousand other meaningless things.

Well, the baby was meaningful, at least. Castiel finally smiled when Gabriel took his hand and let him feel the feather-light kicks of his cousin once-removed, and he forgave Gabriel completely when he handed the correspondence over.

The first was a report from Jessica on the progress of all of his patients, ending with a personal note. _I am pleased to say that D.W. has returned to his usual self, more or less. S.W. is nearly back to normal, he says, which bodes well for the future of all secondary victims. D.W asks very kindly after you, and has sent a note along with this one for you. The rest of the staff send their best regards as well. I will visit this evening. Yours, etc._

His heart leapt as he tore open the next note. The writing was strong and very neat; Dean had probably been concentrating hard. _Dear Castiel, I understand that you are ill at present and wished to pass on my best wishes for a speedy recovery. I am pleased to say that I am recovering well and should be leaving hospital soon. Miss Moore has been very stern with me about not working myself too hard and I have taken her lesson to heart. Sam looks like his old self again, so I have to thank you for saving both our lives. I will not waste this gift you have given me. Please look after yourself and pass on my best wishes to your cousin. I will send word about the investigation as soon as there is any progress. Your very good friend, Dean Winchester._

Castiel smiled, feeling measurably better at this proof of Dean’s health returning. He slipped both notes into the novel he had been trying to re-read and turned his attention hack to Gabriel, who was watching him like a hawk. “Good news, Coz?”

“The remaining victims are recovering well, and Detective Winchester sends his regards,” Castiel replied. As expected, some of the primary victims had not survived for long even with the antidote, but only three had died at his hospital. With the process Miss Moore had developed for removing the cysts, none who had been operated on had died of shock or infection. The crisis was over.

“How is the good Detective?” Gabriel asked archly. “Upright and vital, I hope?” He leered at his terrible innuendo, prompting Castiel to roll his eyes and blush slightly.

“He and Miss Moore both agree that he is progressing well. I hope he does not overstrain himself with work, he’s always had a tendency to do so,” he fretted. “He has too few people around him who will look after him properly. I hope Sam will.”

“My God, you really care for him,” Gabriel said, surprise showing on his face. “I presumed your condition was due to simple desire.”

Castiel looked at his hands, twisting them together nervously. “I do, yes. It doesn’t - disgust you?”

“Why would it - you mean because he’s an Alpha? Dad’s blood, Cassie, I don’t care about that nonsense. I’ve seen too much of the world to believe it to be anything other than outdated prejudice. If he makes you happy and you desire him, you should be with him, and damn anyone who says otherwise.”

“It’s not that simple,” Castiel replied dully, too exhausted to try subterfuge. “He feels nothing for me but friendship.”

“Then he’s a fool. You’re quite the catch.” Gabriel pushed himself upright, knitting bag in hand, and came over to the bed. “Shift yourself over, I want to stretch my legs out for a time. Maybe I’ll read you some more of Persuasion in a while.”

The ruse was clear, but being close to Gabriel made Castiel feel a great deal better, and he allowed himself to be distracted for long enough that his lonely heart was soothed.

 

Dean poured over the latest reports from the precinct with a scowl, knuckling his forehead to ease the headache building there. “This is bullshit,” he muttered irritably. “The Captain should never have agreed to transfer the prisoners.”

“Language, Dean,” Miss Moore sighed from the doorway. “Imagine if I’d been Hannah. She would be horrified with you.”

He looked up guiltily. “Sorry. Didn’t think anyone was there. You walk very quietly.”

Sam stood to greet Miss Moore. “He was raised in a barn. Literally. And he’s very grumpy today. You’ll have to excuse him for that too.”

“I am not!” Dean snapped, but by the look they traded his words had merely served to reinforce Sam’s claim, not disprove it. “It’s just that the case is frustrating.”

“So I heard,” Miss Moore said drily. “Let me check you over again thoroughly, and then we’ll talk about when you can go home.”

He perked up at that, and allowed himself to be poked and prodded without complaint. His mind wandered as he complied with her orders, bending and stretching and lifting and carrying things. There was something he was missing; some clue he had overlooked, some witness that he hadn’t questioned properly.

Crowley was now actively working the case as well, concentrating on the various scientists and doctors in the City known to be able to create and produce the toxin that had come so close to killing him. There were a lot of them; New York had two major universities, and more than one club existed for the furtherance of science, to say nothing of the practising physicians.

The reasoning was sound, though. Castiel had complained more than once about the attitudes of some of his colleagues and peers, and Greenwich Village was full of arrogant young men and women who thought they were above the law. Frequently were, unfortunately. It didn’t feel like a student plot, though; the murders and attempted murders at the beginning of the crisis spoke of someone who had nurtured hatred for some time, to Dean.

Of course, that would mean that recent experiences with medical and science faculty would be invaluable, and conveniently he was in a room with two people who had those experiences. “Are you busy right now, Doc?” he asked absently.

Jessica stared at him, one hand on his wrist and a pen in her other. “Yes, Dean, I am busy right now. I am using a sphygmomanometer to measure your blood pressure. Hence, I am busy.”

Dean looked at the instrument1. “Big name for such a small thing,” he muttered. “I meant after you’re finished with the sfiggy meter.” He didn’t even attempt the word, it was ridiculous.

“I can spare ten minutes, if you need them,” she replied, writing down a number2 with a satisfied smile. “You’re doing much better, I’m pleased to say. I’d like you to stay another night, you still have a touch of a fever, but I’d say you’re nearly ready to leave.”

Sam looked overjoyed but Dean just nodded. “This goes for you too, Sam,” he began. “I know Ruby was studying Natural History, so you might know some relevant people. I’m looking for professors or tutors who are scientifically or medically trained, probably middle-aged or older, who really, really hate non-traditional couples. Or anyone with a particularly sinister reputation.”

“That covers half of the Faculty of Medicine, Dean,” Miss Moore sighed. “Two of them resigned when Beta women were allowed in.”

“I’ll need their names, then,” Dean said decisively.

“I know Ruby fell out with a lot of them after she married me,” Sam said slowly. “Most of them came around, though, after I graduated summa cum laude.”

He and Miss Moore started sharing their most egregious experiences at New York University, which seemed to be similar for both of them: discrimination, belittlement, overlooking of their abilities. Even what Sam called exceptionalism, where once they started to receive some respect they were presumed to be exceptional at their pursuits. Sam was different from all the other Alpha men, because he was soft and gentle and highly intelligent; Jessica was different from normal Beta women, because she was skilled at science and in no way squeamish.

Dean had experienced similar things, but he was in no mood to relate them. He couldn’t remain calm about any of it right now, and he was trying to fish for information, not bond over shared injustice. Besides, he knew he wasn’t exceptional in any way. No-one had ever told him that.

“And then Dr Adler refused to teach a class with me in it, which was charming, so I dressed up as a man and he never knew the difference. At least the Omegas and Alphas in the class kept quiet about it, I’m sure they could all smell my femininity, but he’s a Beta. With a giant chip on his shoulder about it. He should have been an Omega, apparently, but he was ill when he would have presented, so it never happened. All nonsense, of course.”

Dean’s ears perked up, but Sam spoke first. “Adler… does he teach Philosophy of Science classes?”

Miss Moore nodded. “And Medical Ethics. He used to teach Medicine proper, but he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - keep up with the new discoveries, so the Board gently suggested to him that he change specialisations if he wanted to teach students.”

Sam frowned. “I remember hearing about him from Ruby. She had been his favourite, in her first years there, but once I came along he cut all ties. They made up later, though. He even visited her while she was ill, and came to the funeral, I think. I don’t really remember it too well.”

Adler. Dean had known the man was slimy, but this might be something else. “Do you know anything else about him? Family, interests, clubs, that sort of thing?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” Miss Moore replied. “Just that he’s unmarried.”

“His sister worked for the Natural History Department, before she died,” Sam offered. “Of some illness she brought back from Africa. She used to collect specimens like Gabriel did. Very cold woman, I met her once.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“No, sorry,” Sam said regretfully. “She wasn’t mated, though.”

Dean didn’t try to stop the grim smile that came to his lips. “You’re both been very helpful. New York Police Department thanks you for your coöperation. I might need you to write statements for me about this, if you don’t mind.”

When they had both left him to his work, he felt considerably less elated than he should have done. He wasn’t afraid this was a lingering result of the poisoning; he suspected he knew the answer, but he was very good at ignoring things he didn’t like, and he couldn’t deal with it right now. His feelings would have to wait, like they always did.

He wrote a note apprising Crowley that he thought he had a lead but he would need to speak to him privately about it, and mentioned his upcoming release from hospital. Dean hadn’t forgotten that he had first met Adler in the company of the Captain, and if he was the murderer then he had poisoned Dean specifically because of the Captain’s actions that day.

Coincidences did happen, of course. Perhaps it was some unlucky fool who had been employed by Morgenstern, and Adler was innocent in the whole matter. There was no harm in digging a little deeper into his sister’s finds, though.

He sealed the note in a thick envelope and placed it to the side to pass to Alfie, his nurse for the day, when he next saw him. Ed and Harry should still be hanging around outside; one of them would run the note to Crowley, he was sure.

His eyes fell on the note from Castiel, and he picked it up against his will and began reading it for what seemed the hundredth time. _Dean, I am pleased to hear you are recovering & am glad Sam is doing well. My illness is nothing to be concerned with & I am sure I will be able to assist your enquiries again in short order. I hope you are able to conclude your case speedily, as this one seems to have gone on an age already & you must be weary of it. With best wishes, C.N._

As with every other time he had read it, Dean was chilled by the businesslike tone, and worried by the wavering hand. Castiel was clearly still ill, or recovering from something serious, but saw no reason to share the details with Dean. And he seemed to want little more to do with the case, or even Dean himself.

It was everything he had feared. He must have talked in his sleep, shared his secret love of Castiel in his fever and delirium, and have disgusted him. Dean supposed he deserved this cutting out. Who was he, to set his heart so high? Just a lowly Alpha brute, no better than the gangs he had run with, before Bobby had taken pity on him and Sam.

He couldn’t think about it right now, no matter how much it hurt. He needed to save his strength for tomorrow, and hope that Crowley would consent to visiting him at home. And then… well, he would see.

 

The meeting had taken time to set up, and Dean was far from recovered from his illness, but he wasn’t currently looking alarmingly ill and he had Victor beside him to lean on if necessary. Morgenstern’s offices were large and well-appointed, comfortable without seeming luxurious, and his staff were attentive and polite.

It had been Crowley’s idea to approach Morgenstern first. With the antidote discovered and disseminated, he was back from his upstate retreat and had resumed his normal duties. However, all of the evidence against Adler was still circumstantial, and the new Chief of Police wanted something more definitive. Adler might be a talker, he seemed like the bragging type, but none of them could rely on that fact. Hence, Morgenstern.

Dean’s head throbbed gently in time with his pulse, and his body craved something impossible to define. It made him irritable and prone to emotional outbursts that he barely managed to keep in check.

He was also more fatigued than he had ever been in his life. Every muscle felt like it was moving through molasses instead of air, and his nerves jangled in not-quite-pain every time he was touched. The simple act of getting out of bed exhausted him, but - much to Sam’s displeasure - he had not only done so for several days in a row, but had actually gone to the precinct to work.

He would be feeling this for weeks, but it would be worth it. Dean had to have faith in that.

“Detectives? Councilman Morgenstern will see you now.” The polite Beta secretary showed them into a plush office and closed the door behind them.

Morgenstern sat behind his desk, but upon raising his gaze looked slightly alarmed at Dean’s appearance and got up to pull a chair out. “Good God man, should you not be in bed? What can possibly be so urgent that you left your sickbed?”

“Little matter of a multi murderer,” Dean drawled. “I’m sure you remember our last talk on the subject.”

“As I said at the time, I cannot possibly be expected to know anything about that terrible business,” Morgenstern began smoothly.

“That’s not what Bartholomew di Angelo says,” Victor said quietly. “He was quite talkative, in fact.” One of Crowley’s favourite interrogations, he’d said, and everyone had decided not ask too many questions about it.

Morgenstern stilled and his face became a mask, but not before pure rage sparked in his eyes. Now for the carrot. “I’m sure the District Attorney would be minded to be more lenient if you shared the name of your supplier. Now that there’s an antidote, surely they’re far less of a threat to you personally.” Dean tried to keep the smirk off his face, but he suspected it was still there in his eyes.

“House arrest upstate, perhaps, with a token six months in a nice rich white man’s jail,” Victor said amiably. “Murder is such an ugly word for the upper classes, I’ve found.”

“You’ll destroy my career,” Morgenstern hissed.

“Your career’s already destroyed,” Dean said bluntly. “It was the minute you decided to use the toxin. But you can still choose how the rest of your life goes.”

The Councilman sighed deeply and rang a bell on his desk. “Fetch my lawyer, please,” he asked his secretary. “And clear my afternoon appointments.” He rested his head in his hands for a minute, then looked Dean straight in the eye and said, “Zachariah Adler. We met at the Knickerbocker3, where we are both members.” As was Captain Michaels, of course. “He offered me the substance and I took a sample of it. I mentioned it to Bartholomew, in passing, and he must have misinterpreted my intentions and taken it upon himself to use it. I understand my legal and moral culpability here, but I did not touch the vial after receiving it, and I did not poison anyone.”

Dean and Victor shared a look. He was lying, of course, but it was likely that this would be all he would ever admit to. Victor prised out some more corroborating details while Dean observed Morgenstern silently. The last part of this would be tricky to pull off, and Victor had agreed to let Dean manage it.

His opportunity came when Morgenstern snapped, “Will that be all, Detectives?”

“There is one more thing,” Dean said carefully. “We were hoping you might send a letter to Adler for us. Get him to come somewhere to meet you. Here, for preference, or a public gallery.”

“Can’t find him, hey? I thought you were good at your job, Winchester,” Morgenstern sneered.

“We know exactly where he is. We just thought you might help make him less suspicious.” Less likely to destroy valuable evidence, in truth, but Morgenstern didn’t need to know that part.

“And why exactly would I do that?”

“Even in a nice prison, and even with a lenient judge, you’re still looking at several months behind bars,” Dean said quietly. “That’s a long time around a lot of people with sensitive noses and no desire to keep their mouths shut.”

This time Morgenstern made no effort to disguise his shock or hatred. Dean continued quickly, “Anything which I might suspect will never see the inside of a courtroom, you have my word. You being… let down… by your underlings has no possible connection to any more delicate matters. But I very much doubt the Press would care about that.”

Morgenstern’s mouth worked but he said nothing more than, “Go on.”

“Noses are easy enough to mislead, when the circumstances are right. Ensuring that they are, and that your privacy is kept intact, would be reasonable payment in kind, in my opinion. It’s much harder to arrange things like that than you might think. We are in a position where it’s easier.” It would mean calling in some hard-won favours, but Dean thought the cause was worth it. Morgenstern was one of a number of ambitious opportunists; Adler was the mastermind.

“You might be above blackmail yourself, but not above using the threat of other people, I see,” the Councilman said bitterly.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, tired of the man’s posturing. “Vic, go look outside,” he muttered. Victor obliged, narrating the events on the street to himself and a low undertone. “Look, Lucas, I’m not going to give you a hard time over not wanting to try to have your career whilst walking in my shoes. It ain’t something I wanted to do, but I certainly thought about it, from time to time. And there’s a lot of us who’d do the same if we could. You getting caught makes all of us look bad. Might even set the suffrage movement back, who knows. I don’t want you to get caught.

“But I ain’t lifting a finger to help you any more than I already have, by keeping your secret and offering you a lenient term, which I’ll remind you is pretty amazing given you’ll be charged with murder. I don’t doubt that you’re rich enough that you could probably pull this off, but the scavengers will be circling after this comes out, and you’ll be charged through the nose for it. Write the letter. Save yourself money.”

“For the brotherhood of Alphas and my own self interest, hmm? You should have gone into politics, Detective,” he replied softly. “You’re very good at this.”

“Naw. I’d probably get really angry with everyone and end up murdering a bunch of folks.”

Morgenstern snorted. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Detective. And I’ll write your damned letter. Might as well get my forty pieces of silver. I doubt they’ll keep me in the Club after this, anyway.”

 

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was always busy, but there were quieter rooms filled with obscure paintings and memorabilia, and it was in one of them that Dean and Charlie were sitting quietly and discussing the artwork. They were both dressed to look the part of middle-class aficionados, earnest about their appreciation but nowhere near wealthy enough to own their own collection. Exactly the kind of person, in short, who abounded in the Museum, and who was thus very easy to ignore.

Dorothy was lounging against the wall outside the door, tutting at her pocket-watch and looking every bit the fashionable Alpha she actually was, but about ten years younger than her actual age through the miracle of cosmetics and subtle clothing cues. Ed and Harry were gawking around as well, looking out of place and overwhelmed, which they actually were. Very fast runners, though, which might prove useful.

Dean was powdered to within an inch of his life in order to look like he had colour in his cheeks. His hair had been darkened with tinted pomade, and he had eschewed his cane for the moment. He still needed it - in fact, today he needed it more than yesterday - but he didn’t want to stand out, and canes on younger men stood out.

Morgenstern was standing alone in front of a large painting of a stern-looking man in brown, who had no doubt been important in his time but was now known by the title “Man in Brown with Skull”, because he was holding a skull. Even the painter’s name had been forgotten. The painting was quite good, though. There were other skulls hidden in the shadows in what Dean had been informed was a common artistic motif several centuries ago. He just liked the symbolism of it all.

As did Morgenstern, no doubt, he had a politician’s eye for such things. They all waited for their quarry to arrive. Dean was starting to grow worried when Charlie tapped her finger on his hand twice in a pre-arranged signal. Adler had arrived.

After a moment they stood, Charlie making a show of fussing over her skirts but actually helping Dean to his feet, and began a slow and dignified tour of the room. Dean strained his ears to hear the conversation, but the only person close enough to hear was Crowley, who had quietly followed Adler into the room. The man was legendary for his sudden appearances; actually watching him work was an education.

Crowley dropped a pencil, the signal to move, and Dean and Charlie separated briefly and made their way to either side of Adler. “Interesting painting, isn’t it, darling,” Charlie said clearly.

“I particularly like the way all of the dead people are watching us,” Dean agreed in a broad Southern accent. Morgenstern rolled his eyes at that, but it was all in character. “What do you think, gentlemen? Can you see the dead watching here?”

“What does it matter, it’s just a painting,” Adler snapped, but he narrowed his eyes when he saw Dean. “Wait, do I know you?”

“I don’t think so. You killed me already, if you remember,” Dean smiled, and Adler took a step back in horror. In a flash, Charlie gripped his arms tight and twisted them behind his back.. “Zachariah Adler, you are under arrest for the murders of Ruby Winchester, Carlotta Spadavecchia, Donald Stark, Heinrich von Braun, and others. And the attempted murder of me, of course. Can’t forget that one.”

“This is ridiculous! I don’t even know most of those people!”

“And yet, here we are,” Charlie said cheerfully. “You’re coming with me. The Chief of Police wants a nice long chat with you. And he’s not a patient man, so we’re going right now.”

Morgenstern had been sidling backwards this whole time, only to come up against the implacable form of Crowley. “You’re nicked,” he said cheerfully, accent slipping back into pure Londoner. “Come along, Lucas. You can’t get away that easy.”

Adler’s face contorted in rage and hatred. “You should have died, like your wretched brother’s wife,” he hissed. “Upstart Alpha, thinking you can arrest me - the Court won’t stand for this! No right-thinking people will care about a few miserable perverts dying!”

“Keep talking,” Dean smiled. “We have so many witnesses here who’d love to hear you rant some more.” Charlie had other ideas, however, and dragged him into the waiting arms of a uniformed constable, shouting bile and hatred all the way.

“Why do they do that, do you think?” Dean asked vaguely, sitting down on a nearby bench. “Maybe it’s the shock of it.”

“Wouldn’t worry too much about it, pet, he’s probably mad,” Crowley replied. “Get this one out of here too,” he snapped at another policeman. “But treat him gently. He’s a Special Witness.” He turned back to Dean. “Time for bed, Dean,” he crooned. “Let’s get you into this bath-chair I arranged for you earlier because you are a useless great pillock who pushed himself too far. And then back to the hospital for you, to see your nice doctor.”

“No! No. Just take me home. Sam will look after me.”

“No coming into work for at least two weeks. And I’ll see to it that you’re on paid leave.”

Dean managed a faint smile. “Sure thing, boss.”

It was a let-down in some ways, how easy it had all been to take Adler, he mused as he was trundled through the Museum. On the other hand, the journey to get there had been very hard. He was due a few days rest.


	10. Chapter 10

By comparison with the rest of his patients, Castiel’s own recovery seemed to be much slower and more difficult. The fever and desperation had passed, and he was no longer beset by foul dreams and regrets; but his thoughts drifted back to Dean time and again, his appetite remained low, and he was plagued with headaches when he had finished working.

He sat in his own examination room in his shirtsleeves, Gabriel glaring at him from the corner, whilst Jessica measured his temperature and heartbeat, listening carefully to the symptoms he was reluctantly sharing.

“So your headaches only improve when you are here?” she asked carefully.

“Yes. I presume the work is distracting me from the pain.” Castiel buttoned his collar back up and scowled at Gabriel’s excessive eye-rolling. He had forced Castiel to seek advice after surprising him with a visit in the evening, only to find Castiel disconsolate and nauseated, fighting a bad headache and feeling utterly wretched and alone.

“The gland has healed well, and there’s no sign of inflammation, so we can rule out any lingering cysts, I believe.” She busied herself with cleaning and tidying her equipment before sighing and looking at him properly. “I believe I know what this is, but first you must promise me not to dismiss me out of hand.”

Castiel tilted his head in confusion but agreed to her conditions. She had passed her exams with distinction, and was now fully qualified; even if she had not, he had no doubt that she was a capable physician.

Jessica sat down and smoothed her skirts out. “You’re showing all of the classic symptoms of pining sickness, Castiel. The physical symptoms, as well as the emotional ones, are very clear. They were undoubtedly masked for the first week by your illness and recovery, but four weeks have passed since then with no alleviation.”

As much as he wanted it not to be true, Castiel couldn’t deny that the symptoms did indeed point towards a moderate case of pining sickness. “But why would I feel better here?” he wondered out loud.

Gabriel snorted. “Has your nose stopped working, as well? You can’t smell him here? I grant you it’s faint, but he lay in this room for over two weeks, sweating and unwashed.”

The flush rising to Castiel’s face was matched by a gentle hint of pink in Jessica’s. “As we both reasoned when you became ill, your body seemed sure that he was your mate,” she said delicately. “Given that he has not been here since you have returned to work, it seems likely that your body is now mourning his absence.”

The thought of that absence was enough to drive a shard of pain through his chest, it seemed. Dean’s last note had been terse and professional, merely keeping Castiel apprised of the legalities ahead of him. No hint of warmth or affection had bled through the few scribbled lines. Castiel tried not to flinch or hunch over against the pain, but he suspected something of it showed on his face despite his efforts from the worried look Jessica and Gabriel shared.

“Well, thank you for clarifying matters,”he sighed. “I suppose I shall have to get used to the taste of headache powders for the time being.”

Jessica captured his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “You will feel better, Castiel. Please don’t feel like you need to hide your symptoms from me here. I can treat you much better if I know what’s happening.” He grimaced in response, but nodded his agreement and made as dignified a departure as he could, dragging Gabriel along with him.

Gabriel’s long silence in the carriage back to his house, where he had insisted Castiel stay upon seeing him so distraught last night, eventually became suspicious. A silent Gabriel was a plotting Gabriel. Castiel surreptitiously checked his person for any snakes before he spoke up. “You’re thinking of something that I won’t like. Tell me what it is.”

“How did you - very well, although I think you will like it. A lot.” Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis. “Do you remember Cousin Balthazar? Second cousin for me, third for you? No matter, it’s not important what we did as children. He’s an inventor now. One of his products is designed to, well, it helps alleviate heat, and by happy circumstance it has been found to help omegas through pining sickness as well.”

He paused to asses Castiel’s reaction before continuing. “It just so happens that I own one. I found it to be very effective, and really quite helpful. I thought that it might help you, too.”

“You mean one of these vibrating devices,” Castiel reasoned. “I hardly think that it would be appropriate, Gabriel.”

Gabriel sighed, one hand settling on his gently rounding stomach. “It helped me through some really bad times, Cassie. And it’s very different from the, ah, normal heat aids I’m sure you’re familiar with. How about I have the device wired into your room, and then you can decide whether or not to use it at your leisure?” He scrutinised Castiel carefully, pursing his lips. “You know, you’re turning a remarkable shade of puce. Is that healthy?”

Castiel sulked the whole way back to Kali and Gabriel’s house, and when he retired for the evening he glared at the large machine wired into one of the light sockets. He knew that they were highly thought of in Heat Sanitoria, usually rented for a ridiculous premium, and many doctors did recommend knotting for pining sickness, but he doubted it would help. And it would make a noise, and a mess, and that was always embarrassing.

His resolve lasted for three days, until he woke up from a dream of Dean with an ache in his head and heart, and the unmistakable sensation of slick gathering in his underclothes. He was considerably aroused; the dream had been a variant of a familiar fantasy, and the yearning of his body finally overpowered the embarrassment and trepidation over the device.

Roche’s Percussor was designed for use by one person, and according to the manual it worked best when the user was on hands and knees, or a similar pose. Whilst the machine itself was enormous, housing various mechanical and electrical parts, the only things Castiel needed to concern himself with were two levers and a remarkably good facsimile of a penis.

He crawled into position, stripping off his nightgown and placing it carefully underneath himself to catch any fluids. The first touch of the false penis against his most intimate orifice was disconcerting, to say the least, and he almost gave up there and then. But the second was less unexpected, and he longed to be full, so he kept working his hips against it and teasing himself open.

The first lever controlled the vibration, and Castiel debated with himself before pulling it. He gasped sharply when the motor started; the sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced there before, and he felt himself opening up fully in very short order from the movement.

He moaned as he shifted himself backwards onto the false penis, and moaned again when the vibrations hit his prostate and made his own penis drool clear fluid. This was heavenly. His hips were moving almost without conscious input from his mind as his body sought release, but his thoughts were still scattered.

The manual had said that for cases of pining sickness the user should think about their lover whilst the device was active, and allow themselves to get lost in the illusion. When the user was near climax, they should pull the second lever, which would fill the bulb at the base of the false penis with water and simulate being knotted.

Such was the theory. Castiel was perfectly willing to follow the recommendation. He closed his eyes and bent over more to relax his arms, finding a pillow and using it to stifle the small sounds he was sure he would make.

In the privacy of his own mind, the impersonal machine was replaced with the tall and beautiful figure of Detective Winchester. Castiel was not kneeling on a bed, but on his sofa at work; the doors were locked, but the hospital was busy outside, and they had to stay silent so no-one would hear. An old fantasy, but one of his favourites.

Dean’s big hands were moving Castiel’s hips in time with his thrusts, and he was breathing heavily. One of his hands crept round to fondle Castiel’s aching bollocks and rock hard prick, making him gasp and briefly lose his rhythm. He was close, very close, but he would wait for Dean’s own pleasure to claim him.

In his mind, he heard Dean whisper how good it felt, how much he adored this passionate side of Castiel, whilst outside of the fantasy he stopped toying with his prick and fumbled for the second lever, muffling a groan against the pillow as the vibrations suddenly seemed more intense.

Dean’s knot began to swell, locking them together as they both teetered on the edge of climax. Dean came first, with a bitten off gasp, filling Castiel with his seed. Castiel followed shortly afterwards, muffling his cries against his pillow as his climax seemed to go on and on until he was utterly spent.

The fantasy ended abruptly, leaving Castiel suddenly aware that he was kneeling in a puddle of his own slick and ejaculate, with a rubber penis slowly deflating inside him as the machine automatically cut off and shut down. His legs were trembling from the strain of holding himself in one position for so long, and the sweat on his skin quickly cooled.

He pulled away from the machine and folded up his dirty nightshirt, nudging it as far across the floor as he could manage with one foot before burrowing back under the sheets and curling himself around the much-abused pillow. Try as he might to imagine Dean’s arms around him, his body knew that he was cold and alone.

The device was clearly very good at stimulating the body into climax, but the emotional effects on Castiel left much to be desired. He wept himself back to sleep, and woke up too few hours later to a dull ache in his various abused muscles and a profound sense of disgust at himself.

Gabriel was saddened to hear that his favourite toy had not helped Castiel to gain some measure of peace and made many crude jokes in an attempt to make him smile again, but it was Kali who comforted him, the deep notes of her Alpha scent calming him slightly as she embraced him. “I’m sorry you feel this way, Cousin,” she said softly. “The only thing that helped my sister through her grief was being surrounded by family who held her through the pain. That, at least, we can do for you.”

Kali was sharp and prickly most of the time, quick to anger and slow to forgive, never suffering fools gladly. But she was loyal to those she loved, and passionate in her defence of them, and she knew better than anyone how to manage Gabriel’s mercurial moods and all-consuming passions. Castiel was glad to count her as family, and gladder still that she could give him the comfort that he could not ask for. “Thank you,” he whispered, and if he shed another tear or two then no-one spoke of it.

 

By the time three more weeks had passed, Castiel had found some equilibrium again. His heart might never truly recover, but his body was being treated with modern medicine and no longer caused him such distress as it had. He was once more living alone, and his work was going well.

Dr Ezekiel had stayed on after the crisis was over, accepting a pay cut for the chance to make his own policies and work on his own experiments. Dr Sands had returned to her own hospital, hopefully tempered a little by her experiences at Greenwich Grace. Many of the nurses and porters had also been happy to stay on, and with the new investments that their discoveries had generated in place, Castiel was able to pay everyone a decent wage and keep the second floor open.

He even had plans for the third floor, but those would take some time to realise. He hummed cheerfully as he walked through the empty corridors and descended back into main body of the hospital. He would have to install an elevator somewhere, to make moving patients safer and easier.

Jessica - Dr Moore - met him at the bottom of the stairs, looking a little worried. Or guilty, perhaps? “Ah, there you are, Castiel,” she began, walking him into the kitchen and pouring him a freshly made cup of coffee. “As you know, I’ve been encouraging all of the toxin victims to return for a check-up, and today is the first day of appointments.”

“Of course, you’ll want to check me over,” Castiel realised. “Whenever you’re ready for me, then.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant,” she said nervously. “Cookie? They’re made with chocolate.”

...Oh. “Of course,” he said heavily. “Detective Winchester is expected.”

“He and his brother are in the waiting room,” she nodded. “I can have them shown into one of the rooms upstairs, if you don’t wish to see them. I thought I would check, first.”

Castiel took a fortifying sip of coffee and nibbled on the cookie, collecting his thoughts. It would set back some progress to be in the same room as the Detective, but on consideration, he believed he would rather have Dean in his life in some small capacity than not see him at all. Castiel didn’t just miss the physicality of the man; he missed his intellect, his wit, his passion for uncovering the truth and seeing justice served. He missed his friend.

“I think I’d like to be there for the check-ups,” he concluded with a sigh. “I know it might be harder for me, but scientific curiosity, at the very least, demands it.” It might give him a chance to apologise to the Detective too, for any awkwardness over the special treatment and care Castiel had shown him as he lay dying. He must surely have realised the significance of Castiel’s actions in that desperate week.

“If you’re sure, then. I’ll show them to your private examination room.”

Castiel finished his coffee and made up a tray for four people with a new pot. He was procrastinating, he knew, but he needed to steel himself against the worst. Dean might walk out in disgust, or refuse to be seen by him. He might laugh in Castiel’s face.

But of course he would do none of those things. Dean Winchester was a good, compassionate man, with a kind heart. He would allow Castiel to retain his dignity, if nothing else. That decided, he set off down the corridor briskly.

When he opened the door and entered the room, he was instantly struck by how healthy Sam looked and smelled. The hollow places in his face had filled out, and his hair was growing at a prodigious rate, thick and luxuriant. Whilst still wearing mourning colours, he no longer looked like he was trapped in a perpetual cycle of grief.

His face brightened and he jumped up to shake Castiel warmly by the hand. “Dr Novak! I have so much to thank you for, I was just telling Dr Moore how much you’ve both changed my life.” His grip was strong and his hands warm and dry, exactly as they should be.

“Sam, it’s good to see you looking so well, Please, sit down. Let me pour you some coffee.”

In contrast to Sam, though, Dean looked like his recovery had been less miraculous. He had colour in his cheeks and had put on weight, but he was a far cry from the man he had been before this all began. His smile didn’t reach his eyes when he greeted Castiel. “Good to see you, Doc.”

Castiel passed a cup over to him, made the way he liked it. “Hello, Dean,” he said. “It’s good to see you again too. Please continue, Sam, I apologise for interrupting.” Castiel sat down, feeling the subtle tension in his body start to ease as the familiar, comforting scent of the Detective washed over him, detectable even through Sam’s fashionable cologne.

“Where was I… Ah yes! There’s talk of an award ceremony, and Dean made sure that you’ll both be honoured if it comes about. I’m sure he can give you the details.”

Dean’s cheeks stained faintly pink as he gave both Castiel and Jessica a quick smile. “Seemed the least I could do, you two did all the hard work.”

Jessica looked at him consideringly, then at Castiel with the same slight frown. “Of course we will both be there to support you, regardless. You deserve to be recognised for your efforts, Dean.” He demurred, but Sam silenced him with a well-placed elbow. “I think… for this check-up, I’d like to have the interviews conducted separately. Mr Winchester, why don’t you come with me, and we’ll leave these two to catch up, hmm?”

Castiel turned a wide-eyed gaze on her but she was already moving. “We’ll just be down the hall. We’ll be fifteen minutes, perhaps. Maybe twenty.” She looked meaningfully at Castiel, but he didn’t understand what she was trying to say.

The door closed, and left him and Dean alone together for the first time in nearly two months.

 

Dean watched helplessly as Sam, his one hope of rescue, left the room with Dr Moore. As their scents faded with their absence, Castiel’s slowly filled Dean’s nose. The effect on his body was gradual, but obvious to one looking for it: his headache began to ease, his shoulders loosened, and he began to feel less despondent.

Today would set his progress back weeks. He’d be lucky if he was well again by the time summer ended. At least his experiences with the so-called Pining Poison had given him perspective on how much worse it could get, but looking forward to yet more months of pining sickness made his heart sink.

“Let’s start with how you’ve been feeling in yourself,” Castiel began, using his Doctor voice rather than his familiar one. It hurt to hear, even as just hearing him speak at all continued to ease Dean’s head.

“It took two weeks or so for my strength to start returning properly, and another month before I felt properly recovered,” Dean said. “Uh… appetite took awhile to come back properly, and I still can’t stomach the idea of gruel.” He grimaced at the thought.

“Good. And your emotional state?”

Dean thought frantically about how to filter out the feelings of longing and heartsickness without lying to the Doctor. “I was… fragile, for a time,” he admitted quietly. “I think I cried more than I have since I was a child, the first little while. From joy as well as sadness. But that settled down. I think I’m more aware of my emotions, still, but that could just be because I’ve started noticing them. Like a ticking clock late at night, or noticing every redhead in the city because you met one once. I certainly haven’t been feeling anything I didn’t expect to feel for some time now.”

There; that was truthful whilst preserving his dignity. Castiel nodded thoughtfully, making a few more notes. “I’d like to check you over. If you wouldn’t mind… it will be easier to examine your lungs if your chest and back are bare.” He seemed uncomfortable at the very thought of seeing Dean half-naked.

Dean ducked his head and took off his jacket. “Of course.” His fingers trembled on the buttons of his shirt, but he managed to get undressed without embarrassing himself by getting stuck in his own shirtsleeves or strangled by his suspenders.

“If you could sit on the bed, please,” Castiel requested. “I’m glad to see you’ve been putting weight back on, but you’re still thinner than I’d like,” he noted. “You said your appetite has returned? Please try to eat a little more rich food, then. And don’t skip on luncheon, Dean, I know what you’re like.” His smile was small but it reached his eyes, and Dean smiled back. At least he couldn’t hate Dean, if he was still happy to use his Christian name.

“The good meat patties, every day, I promise.” He sat on the bed as Castiel arranged his equipment fussily, almost as if he were nervous of this examination.

“I’ll start with the affected mating gland and then move on to your heart and lungs,” he explained. “Tell me if you feel any discomfort or strange sensations, please. I’ll need to manipulate it quite a lot to be sure that it’s healed and no cysts remain.” Dean nodded and tried to relax his shoulders, steeling himself for what would no doubt be a taxing examination.

Castiel’s first touch against the scar over his abused gland felt like electricity sparking through his skin, down his spine, and making his knot give a warning throb of arousal. Dean bit his lip and thought about Captain Fergus Crowley in order to maintain control of his groin, and hence any scent of arousal that might stain the air and disgust the Doctor.

The investigation continued, first gently probing to see if there was any lingering discomfort, then more thoroughly to probe for any cysts or odd scarring on the gland. Dean sat quietly, only speaking to answer Castiel’s questions about whether or not he felt any strange pulling or tightness, or any aches or stabbing pains. He was glad to be able to answer in the negative, but the truth was that the longer Castiel manipulated the gland, the happier his body became.

His back and shoulders were finally fully relaxed for the first time in two months, and his headache was completely gone. Some treacherous, dangerous part of him was convinced that this touch was the touch of his mate, and that he was safe and home and loved. Dean could almost weep at the combination of pleasure from his body and pain in his heart and mind.

“I’ll check your breathing now,” Castiel said. “Sit up straight and breath in and out and I tell you to.”

The stethophone was cold against Dean’s skin, but he was happy to have an excuse to breathe deeply for a short time. By the time he lay down for his heart to be checked thoroughly, he was almost calm again, almost in control.

Castiel finished by feeling for any swellings in his abdomen, and at that Dean’s control nearly slipped into mild hysteria at the thought that the Doctor’s hands were so close to the only place that wanted to be swollen, but he managed to brush it off as being ticklish. Finally, the examination ended, and Dean sat back up and stretched before moving.

“Everything seems to be fine,” Castiel said with some relief. “I have no doubt that some lesions remain in your lungs, but there is nothing there to concern me. Your heartbeat is good, and the gland appears to be healing well. I’m very pleased to pronounce you physically recovered from your poisoning.” He paused, and blushed faintly. “I was surprised not to see you before now, though. Has the murder rate dropped since so many criminals were jailed?”

Dean paused in getting dressed again. “Not really,” he admitted. “Too many other criminals see the way to rise to the top has opened. There’s an outright gang war in Little Italy1. It’s kept us all busy.”

“Ah,” Castiel said softly. “Then it was my presence you were avoiding.” His voice was almost expressionless, but Dean sensed he was hiding pain.

“Not because- not because of anything you did. You were kindness itself when I was ill. I would never have survived without your care, you have to know that,” Dean stressed. “I owe you my life, and if there’s ever anything I can do to repay you, I’ll do it. I just thought…” He closed his eyes against having to see sympathy or scorn on Castiel’s face. “I just thought you’d rather not have me around, that’s all.”

“Why would I not want to see you? You’re one of my only friends here,” Castiel frowned. “Unless you - oh. I see. You refer to the matter of unwanted attentions, of course.”

Dean’s hands were trembling too much to dress himself properly, and he was very much afraid his voice would be unsteady. “Like I said, I thought you wouldn’t want to see me. I know how embarrassing my presence here must be for you, and how, how terribly I must be scenting your sanctuary. It has never been my intent to cause you pain, or harm in any way. I just want you to be happy.” He blinked away tears.

“It is for me to judge whether I can tolerate your presence, not you,” Castiel said sharply. “Your friendship means a great deal to me. I would rather you came to me for aid when you needed it, whatever embarrassment or pain it might cause.”

Dean reeled back, searching Castiel’s face for remorse or compassion. He found none. “I knew you thought little enough of my sex, but I never thought you would want to punish me for my feelings,” he whispered. “It’s been hard enough to stay away, these past few weeks. Do you truly want me to remain in this state?”

Castiel blinked at him owlishly. “What? Explain.”

Dean closed his eyes; a tear slipped out, and he should be embarrassed, but he was too heartsick to care. “My feelings for you progressed from mere longing to outright pining for you, these past few weeks. I am doing everything I can to control them, but seeing you again - I beg you, if my friendship means so much to you, at least let me recover from this, this pining sickness before we return to our old routine. I promise you, I won’t behave inappropriately towards you in any way. I would never wish to sully you so.”

He heard a small gasp, and then a gently hand brushed away the tear and cupped his face. “Dean, look at me.”

It took all of his courage to do so. Castiel was standing very close, and his eyes were very bright. “Do you mean to tell me that when you said that the only person you desired did not want your romantic attentions, you meant me?”

“Well, yes,” Dean admitted hoarsely. Castiel was still cupping his cheek; he couldn’t help pressing against his hand slightly.

“And you a detective,” Castiel said wonderingly. “You foolish, beautiful man. I see I will have to improve your confidence somehow.” He moved closer still to Dean and brought his other hand up to rest gently over the scar on his neck. “Tell me if this helps,” Castiel breathed, and kissed him gently and sweetly.

Dean was dazed when it ended, still trying to put all of the pieces together in his head. “You mean you - you too?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel smiled. “I mean me too.” Dean’s heart soared and he finally dared to reach for Castiel in return. His skin was soft and warm; the fine hairs on the back of his neck invited stroking; the body under his medical coat was firm and shivered at his touch.

Their second kiss was less surprising, but just as sweet.

 

Dean looked incredibly handsome in his best suit, the same one he had worn to the medal ceremony a few weeks ago where he had been publicly celebrated for his actions during the crisis. It had opened doors for him that had previously been barred, and the mood in the City had softened towards Alpha men once more, although Dean claimed it wouldn’t last.

That might be true, but Castiel was determined to do everything that he could to ensure that the public never treated one particular Alpha man badly, at least. A smile crept onto his face as he listened with half an ear to the legal disclaimers that the City Hall official was droning through.

“With that in mind, do you, Castiel Novak, take this Alpha to be your husband and mate in the eyes of the law?”

“I do,” Castiel said clearly. A small cheer, quickly stifled, came from his witnesses.

“And do you, Dean Winchester, take this Omega to be your husband and mate?”

“I do,” Dean said gruffly. A suspicious sniffle came from his witnesses.

“Then I pronounce this marriage valid in the State of New York and any others which recognise our authority, subject to your return within fourteen days of the date of this ceremony to ensure valid mating bites or equivalent. Congratulations. Please exit through the door on the left.”

Not the most romantic wedding in the world, perhaps, but it was more than either Castiel or Dean had ever hoped for. They clutched hands and grinned giddily at each other until Sam coughed delicately behind Dean’s shoulder. “Come on, lovebirds, we have to sign the license.”

“Before you get to go home and have all the sex!” crowed Gabriel, waddling determinedly to Castiel’s side. He still had a few weeks to go before delivery per his own estimations, but he looked much closer to giving birth than that, making Castiel and Jessica eye him with professional concern every time he winced.

Most of the party blushed at Gabriel’s words, but there was truth there. As with all matings, today had been timed so that Dean and Castiel would enter rut and heat at nearly the same time, maximising the chances for a successful bite, and by Dean’s wider than normal swagger he was feeling the effects as much as Castiel was; his temperature had begun to rise and his sense of touch was heightened, both good indicators that heat would soon be upon him.

They signed the required documents and were swept out into the waiting carriage by their friends and family, the seven of them only fitting inside because Charlie sat giggling on Jessica’s knees, flirting quite forwardly. Jessica seemed more amused than dismayed, although Sam seemed a little wistful at the sight.

Castiel slipped closer and closer to Dean as the carriage hurried them to their new home, inexorably drawn to him as his heat began to swirl in his lower abdomen. Gabriel winked at him and handed him a small tub of honey and sheep fat with no comment, and Sam slipped Dean a similar small pot.

Jessica had already provided their new home with a fully stocked medical case within easy arm’s reach of the bed, and her parting comment, when they finally reached their destination, was pure doctor. “Be sure to swab thoroughly beforehand and clean your teeth, I don’t want to have to treat an infection in either of you.” She refused to allow Gabriel to leave the carriage, either, muttering something to him that made Gabriel gulp and settle down instantly.

“We love you both! We’ll come by in three days to see how you are!” came the cries from the carriage as it left for its next destination, wherever that was. Castiel didn’t care; he could feel slick beginning to gather in his undergarments, and it was a struggle not to pounce on Dean in the street.

The house was a new build, with indoor plumbing and electric lights. A wedding gift from Gabriel, Dean had initially struggled with the idea of accepting such extravagance but had quickly grown to love it, especially when he realised he could keep a horse in the nearby stables. (“There’s an older mare at the station, Cas, she’s all black save for a white star and beautiful, and I’m the only one who really knows how to ride her.”) And so they would soon be the proud owners of a curmudgeonly horse known as Baby.

Dean unlocked the door and swept Castiel into his arms, surprising a startled sound that made Dean laugh and kiss his nose. “Welcome home, husband,” he murmured throatily as he closed and locked the door behind him and began climbing the stairs. “What would you like to do now that we’re alone?”

“I thought we could start by going over the accounts,” Castiel said dryly, startling another laugh from Dean. “Or perhaps laundry. I seem to be making a mess of my good suit.”

Dean’s eyes darkened and he scented Castiel’s neck, his tongue teasing at the delicate skin just inside his suit collar. “I’m sure I can help get you out of your clothes.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, Dean. Beloved husband,” Castiel breathed, capturing Dean’s lips in a searing kiss that left them both breathless.

“No inconvenience at all, I assure you.” Dean placed him in the centre of their new bed and began to work at his buttons with trembling hands. “It’s my pleasure, honestly. I’m always here to help.”

Castiel kicked off his shoes and worked his arms out of his suit jacket before starting on Dean’s shirt. “You should change too, in case I accidentally spoil your clothes as well.”

“If you feel it’s best, of course.” Dean gasped as Castiel managed to scrape a nipple through the fine cotton of his shirt, and he finished unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt and began working on his trousers. “I’m more than happy to help. That’s what I vowed,” he said shyly. “When I signed my name, that’s what I promised you. To always be here for you.”

Castiel stared up at him in wonder, half-dressed and quite overcome with love and lust. He reached for Dean’s face and cupped it as tenderly as he knew how. “And I you,” he whispered. “I love you in all of the ways it is possible to love someone. Now please, Dean, I wasn’t lying about the mess I’m making, my trousers are quite uncomfortable.”

Laughing again and pressing kisses to every part of Castiel that he could reach, Dean divested them both of the rest of their clothes in short order before pulling Castiel gently into an upright position. He frowned as he traced the thin scar over Castiel’s right mating gland. “Such a small mark for so great a sacrifice,” he murmured.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. The had had this conversation many times before; perhaps it was time to try a different tack. He manhandled Dean up to the head of the bed, piling pillows so he was not leaning directly on the unforgiving wood of the headboard, and settled himself on Dean’s thighs, his considerable erection brushing Castiel’s own.

“There are people who use the toxin you were exposed to to discover which pairings were blessed by the Gods,” he began. “They refuse any matings not tested by this method, because whilst the first victim always falls ill, the second only does if the union is foretold in heaven.”

He kissed Dean long and slow, hips beginning to ache from the effort of not grinding himself against him, slick beginning to roll down his thighs. “I am the only person known to have fallen ill without already being mated. If we were part of that tribe they would call our union fated. Stop thinking of this small scar as your fault, and try to see it instead as a sign we were meant to be together.”

Dean swallowed and blinked back tears. “I’ll try,” he whispered. “You know it’s always hard for me not to think the worst of myself.”

Castiel gave into the urge to move, rocking himself forwards and stifling a moan of satisfaction. “And I will always try to stop you from doing so.”

They slid against each other for a time, kissing and stroking each other, until Castiel began to speed up with a small moan. Dean broke off and grasped him around the hips to keep him still. “Wait, sweetheart, there’s something we have to do before we do anything else, remember?” He nodded at the carefully laid out bottles and swabs on the bedside table,

Grumbling furiously at the interruption, Castiel cleaned the undamaged gland on Dean’s left shoulder with mild carbolic acid and cleaned it again with boiled, slightly salty water, over and over until the scent had gone. He repeated the process on himself, and then poured them both some strong gin. “Swirl it around your mouth and spit it back out, you shouldn’t drink during rut,” he said firmly. Dean nodded and followed his orders exactly.

With that out of the way, they were free to procede how they saw fit. “Are you comfortable?” Castiel asked solicitously.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Dean replied in bemusement. “Why?”

Castiel raised his hips and slid forward, letting Dean’s tantalising and aesthetically pleasing erection slip backwards until it rested at his entrance. “I want you inside me,” he said bluntly. “Like this. If, if that’s acceptable.”

“Acceptable! Yes, Cas, it’s more than acceptable. Are you sure you’re ready?”

With a roll of his hips and a long drawn-out moan, Castiel sheathed Dean inside him. “Yes, I’m sure,” he gasped. Heat was usually an imposition, but it did provide some advantages, and not having to prepare himself was definitely one of them. “I’m very sure I’m ready, Dean, please start moving.”

Dean did just that, surging up to meet Castiel’s every downward movement, knot thickening with every thrust. Here in their own home, with no-one around them to be offended or disturbed, they were able to discover and revel in the small noises of pleasure each other made. Dean’s soft moans and breathy sighs grew louder as they began to quicken their pace; Castiel gasped when Dean’s knot pressed and pulled at his entrance, and groaned when their movements combined in exactly the right way to intensify his pleasure.

They whispered words of encouragement and love as their pleasure spiralled higher and higher. Dean began to move faster and faster, his arms circling Castiel possessively and his face tight with need. “Now, Cas, I’m going to - bite me now,” he groaned, and Castiel bent his head and scented out the perfect spot and bit down hard just as Dean thrust forward one last time, knot pulsing inside Castiel.

He tasted warm and rich, and somehow, undefinably, of home. Even if Castiel hadn’t known what to do, instinct would still have guided him to lick the wound he had made again and again, lapping up the relatively small amount of blood and driving something of himself deep into the gland beneath.

Dean moaned and whimpered throughout, wrapping himself even tighter around Castiel, hot and sweaty and trembling and his. When the delicious taste finally subsided, he pulled back and stroked Dean’s shoulders and face gently until he came back to himself. “My God, I can feel you,” he said wonderingly.

“I should hope so, Dean, I’m sitting right on top of you,” Castiel replied smartly, circling his hips a little and gasping at the feeling of being truly knotted for the first time. His body still craved release, but his heat was more than happy with the current state of affairs, and he felt the normal craving of being very aroused rather than the burning need that heat usually inspired.

Dean captured his mouth in a deep and bruising kiss, moaning in satisfaction at the taste of himself on Castiel’s lips. “Never change, sweetheart,” he murmured. He stilled Castiel’s movements and moved them both into a position more to his liking, making Castiel tremble and gasp as he was stimulated inside and out.

“Looks like I haven’t done my job properly,” Dean said with a moue of disappointment. He trailed a finger down Castiel’s chest, teasing at his nipples and the fine line of hair descending from his bellybutton, before beginning to tease at the head of Castiel’s erection, prompting another surge of clear fluid from its tip and a whimper. “That’s a good sound, Cas. I like making you make that sound.”

He set about making sure that Castiel continued to whimper, using his hand and hips to elicit the best response, until Castiel was nearly keening with the pleasure of it. “Dean, my - oh! My neck, Dean, now,” he gasped.

Just as he finally, gloriously crested the peak of orgasm, he felt Dean’s teeth breach his skin, and ecstasy rolled over him in unending waves. Inside him Dean pulsed again with his own release, but his mouth never stopped working at Castiel’s neck until he was nearly incoherent with the pleasure of it.

Castiel was slumped gracelessly against Dean when the high finally ended, giggling faintly and knowing without doubt that Dean was amused and full of love for him as he stroked his hair and kissed his temple over and over.

He didn’t really want to sit up, but he at least managed to get more upright again, penis soft and sticky against his belly. “You’re incredible,” Castiel said, sounding drunk to his own ears. “I can feel your feelings. I never believed that was real.”

“Me neither,” Dean confessed. “Guess we get to find out how that works together, huh?” His knot was beginning to soften, but he made no move to pull out of Castiel yet.

“I wonder why, though,” Castiel mused. “It’s very professionally frustrating, not knowing why.” If he thought about it, he might come up with one or two experiments which might help him to understand the mechanism better…

“Cas, sweetheart, I love you and your amazing mind, but right now we should clean up and bandage our necks and get something to eat before the next round,” Dean said gently. He kissed Castiel long enough and sweet enough that all thoughts of science left his head.

He found a towel and dampened a corner of it, solicitous of his mate, before lifting Castiel a little and sliding out of him. The sensation was uncomfortable, but made better by the gentle care Dean took of him afterwards, wiping him clean before clambering off the bed to make a plate of snacks for them both to share.

Castiel cleaned their wounds but decided against bandaging them for the time being; they would likely bite each other again in their passion over the course of their shared mating cycle. As long as they kept the areas clean, and their mouths clean, everything should be well. Mild infections were common with mating bites, but they rarely became too severe, as Nature herself had decreed that they should both be given and survived.

His appetite was indifferent but he dutifully ate everything that Dean fed him, and by the end of the meal he had begun to deliberately let his tongue linger over Dean’s fingers as his heat began to surge again. Dean was in a similar state, and he merely placed the tray onto the floor before grinning and pinning Castiel to the bed, to begin their love-making all over again.

 

Days passed in languid bliss and fervent passion, before their bodies finally decided that mating time had ended. They were still knotted together, Dean wrapped around Castiel like two spoons in a drawer, when a thought occurred to him. One he should probably have had some time ago, if he was being honest with himself.

Dean slid his free hand down Castiel’s chest and rested it on his abdomen. “Do you think… they say that mating for the first time is the best time for conceiving a child,” he said tentatively.

“Superstition, I’m afraid,” Castiel replied sleepily, but he entwined a hand with Dean’s. “I’m… rather old for it. And my family is not known for its fecundity.”

“I remember you telling me that three weeks ago,” Dean said, amused. “I just like the thought. Instinct, you know.”

Castiel’s hand tightened on his. “I do.” A faint feeling of worry came through the bond, and Dean kissed the back of his head fiercely.

“I won’t stop loving you if we can’t have children of our own, my love,” Dean promised. “Plenty of children who need a home, if we want to give one. And if we don’t, then that’s just more of you for me. I didn’t fall in love with you for what you might give me; I fell in love with you for you, all of you, your heart and your mind and your soul. And your body, obviously.” He rolled his hips a little, knot still catching on Castiel’s rim.

Castiel sighed in pleasure at the movement, and kissed Dean’s trapped arm. “I hate what Adler did to you,” he said suddenly, “but I am forced to thank him for finally making us see that we could not be apart. I don’t think I could ever have truly been happy without you by my side.”

Dean’s breath caught and he swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. “I feel the same way,” he admitted softly. He tightened his grip on Castiel, never wanting to have to let him go, even for necessities. “I love you, Castiel Novak. Now and forever.”

His mate twisted his shoulders and head around enough for them to kiss before pulling back with a frown. “If we do have a child, I’m not naming it after him,” he grumbled with the familiar and dearly loved frown in place. “Even if it is the polite thing to do.”

Dean laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes. He had never thought he could feel so much love and joy, and now he was full to the brim with it.

“I still don’t understand why you’re laughing that way, but I like the way it makes you feel,” Castiel said, faking grumpiness. “I hope everything is as good as this forever,” he added in a whisper. “It seems unreal, still.”

“Can’t the this good all the time, I’m afraid,” sighed Dean. “But I’ll do what I can to make sure it always gets back to being this good.”

“That will be more than enough, then,” Castiel said firmly.

They would, of course, have ups and downs. They would each get too engrossed in their work, and leave the other resentful and jealous of their time; they would both forget important things, and not listen at the right time, and argue over stupid misunderstandings. Of such things are marriages made.

But they would always come back to this: wrapped in each other’s arms, knowing themselves to be cherished and loved, and loving and cherishing in return, whatever life would throw at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read on for the acknowledgements and witty notes!


	11. Acknowledgements and Appendix

This story would never have seen the light of day without considerable help and hand-holding from many people.

First and foremost, the Pinefest Mods, [Mittens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MittenWraith/pseuds/MittenWraith) and Violet, who provided amazing support and understanding during a difficult few months for me. Violet has my undying gratitude for continuing to allow me extensions in order to compensate for the considerable burden of physical and mental illness I struggled with, and Mittens made the community a welcoming and supportive place for all of us.

Secondly, my artist Iraeim, whose enthusiasm and beautiful art made her a joy to work with. There's a link to her tumblr below, and she posts lots of incredible pieces of work you should go check out..

Thirdly, my patient and incisive beta reader, supernatural9917, who went above and beyond the call of duty in proofing, researching, and listening to me whine patiently. And to my other beta reader, who was really enthusiastic about the story even though we live halfway round the world from each other.

Fourthly, [justholdingstill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justholdstill/pseuds/justholdstill), who reassured me after the very first scene when I was panicking about writing crap. I'm still not sure how good this actually is, but I made it through another 52,000 words, and I would never have done that without that first reassurance.

Finally, although he'll never read this, my partner, who kept trying to get more pine trees in the story and was very supportive during all the weird penis sex I was writing at 4am.

Thanks to everyone who's made it this far in the story, as well. I hope you enjoyed it! Please consider checking out everyone's work, it's only polite. I have a tumblr [here](https://knittedgauntlets.tumblr.com/) and Iraeim has a tumblr [here](https://imtoobiforyou.tumblr.com/).

 

APPENDIX

Chapter 1

1\. Typhoid sufferers. Typhoid was endemic in the US at the end of the 19th Century, and for some time into the 20th Century. It has two distinct stages of infection, with most people dying in the second week from either fever, dehydration from the diarrhoea, or complications from constipation. It is a very painful disease.  
2\. Cholera outbreak. Cholera was also endemic in this time period. It wasn't a good time for clean water all round.  
3\. Recent theories of contagion. The importance of hygiene and disinfecting was only just starting to be realised, and there was still resistance to it in the medical community. Castiel is very up-to-date.  
4\. Gruel. These days, people call it bone broth. Thin soup, with as much or as little meat and vegetables in it as the chef could afford or care about. Regularly fed to sick people as it was easy to digest and (hopefully) nutritious.  
5\. Galloping consumption. Consumption was generally understood to be tuberculosis, although the word could be used for any wasting illness. Galloping consumption, also known as Military Tuberculosis, was a particularly rapid and brutal form of TB where the bacillus entered the bloodstream and spread through the whole body, killing in a matter of weeks or even days. Before antibiotics, it was a death sentence. In the new age of antibiotic resistant TB, it's a real threat again.  
6\. Camorra. The name used by any one of a number of Italian criminal families, which operated on a relatively small level. There was no overall organisation, and they were frequently rivals of each other.  
7\. Carbolic soap. A strong soap used as a disinfectant. Pink in colour, with a very distinctive smell.

Chapter 2

1\. Time-line. In use since 1876.  
2\. Ancient Egyptian canoptic jars. A series of four jars used to house the internal organs of mummified bodies, interred with the body. Egypt-fever was all the rage, and Egyptologists gleefully looted tombs and stole treasures for several decades before and after 1895.  
3\. Gray's Anatomy. Textbook of human anatomy, first published in 1858 and still in use today.  
4\. Puking. In colloquial usage since at least the 1600s.

Chapter 3

1\. Laudanum. A medicinal tincture of opium, used as a sedative. Opium addiction has been a problem for quite a long time, and the effects of laudanum were well-documented. However, it was (and is) a very effective sedative and pain reliever.  
2\. His dark hair was shaved short for convenience during his long illness. Shaving the head during fevers was pretty common, presumably because it helped to cool the head and was easier to maintain. Sweaty hair smells pretty disgusting after a few days.  
3\. Count red blood cells and white blood cells. Whilst blood-letting was on the way out, blood was starting to be understood by the late 19th Century, and could be used as a (limited) diagnostic technique. Castiel would be able to compare the numbers with those of healthy people, and check for any blood parasites or bacteria. Microscopy has been around since the mid 18th Century, and by 1895 the technology was pretty good.  
4\. The Modern Style. What Art Nouveau was generally called at the time, although it had a bunch of different names. Movements like that are usually named several years after they start.

Chapter 4

1\. The new Commissioner. Theodore Roosevelt took the job in 1895, seeking to end organised crime and police corruption and bring the NYPD up to modern standards of policing.  
2\. A handful of Black police officers in the City. In real life, the first Black police officer in the NYPD was Samuel J. Battle in 1905, although Brooklyn had had a few Black policemen before the police forces combined in 1898.  
3\. Slumming it. In use in this context for around a decade.  
4\. God created them Male and Female. From the Bible, Genesis Chapter 1 I think.  
5\. Agitatrix. Female agitator.  
6\. Her mannish and highly fashionable trousers. In real life, it was another couple of decades before trousers became fashionable for women, but in an A/B/O world it seems logical that young Alpha women would embrace the fashion.

Chapter 5

1\. Molecule. Chemistry understood about elements and molecules by this time, although this usage is probably too modern. A society that paid far more attention to smells could easily come to this understanding earlier than ours did, though.  
2\. Animalcules. Meaning “little animal”, this was in use for any microscopic organism. Bacteria were starting to be classified, but viruses were still too small to be seen by the technology of the day. It's also a brilliant word.  
3\. Oxford, England. Whilst I used this construction for thematic purposes, it annoys the shit out of me. It should be Oxford, (Great) Britain - or Oxford, UK - because England is only one part of the whole country. Of the four countries of the UK - England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland - none of them are independent of each other, and they should not be singled out for special nomenclature outside of pretty specific cultural, legal, and historical references. This is not one of those times. In fact, saying Oxford, England when Oxford, Britain is meant erases the cultures and identities of several million people, many of whom are regularly forced to confront whether or not they're British at all because of how happy the world is to call them English. /rant  
4\. Stethophone. Late 19th C variant of a stethoscope with two ends rather than one; the modern stethoscope wasn't invented for another 30 years. There's one on the title banner.  
5\. Dad's blood. You think that I'm putting this in just because it's Gabriel, right? But no! Dad's blood was genuinely used an exclamation at the time, Dad meaning God. The gentleman's blasphemy, if you will. Either the writers in Supernatural really did their homework or they stumbled across a similar construction by coincidence. It's brilliant either way.

Chapter 6

1\. Multi-murderer. What we now call serial killers.  
2\. Some Sicilian lot. The Mafia, less dependent on family connections, eventually out-performed the various Camorra families in America, mainly rising to prominence because of Prohibition.  
3\. Omertà. Technically a Sicilian word for the Mafia code of silence, but I'm willing to bet it was known and used outside of Sicily, which is why Dean knows it.

Chapter 7

1\. Annamese. Vietnam was called Annam at the time; Tran is a Vietnamese surname.  
2\. Period of fertility decrease. Anton van Leeuwenhoek first identified sperm (which he called animalcules, of course) under a microscope in 1677, and it was pretty immediately linked with fertility in men. Sperm count, health and motility would be measurable and testable in an A/B/O world in the late 19th Century, with the rise of the scientific process.  
3\. Bechuanaland. The name of Botswana before independence, part of the British protectorate and ruled from South Africa.

Chapter 8

1\. Bastard Yellowwood. Afrocarpus falcatus, native to Southern Africa and Mozambique. A conifer, related to pine trees.  
2\. Imfohlafohlane. The Zulu name for the plant known in English as Starry Wild Jasmine. Has lovely flowers. I have no idea if it grows in the same locations as the yellowwood and the baboons, I just liked the name.

Chapter 9

1\. The instrument. Sphygmomanometers are the things that measure blood pressure. A picture of one used at the time can be fount at https://museumofhealthcare.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/von-basch-sphygmomanometer.jpg  
2\. A number. Only systolic blood pressure could be measured at this point, because diastolic measurements hadn't yet been isolated.  
3\. The Knickerbocker. The Knickerbocker Club, an influential gentlemen's club still around today. Had a reputation for conservatism and attracted a wide range of luminaries.

Chapter 10

1: Little Italy. New York district, so named in the early 1880s.


End file.
